Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

"With Words We Govern Men": Why Politicians Love Writing Political Biographies

Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

"With Words We Govern Men": Why Politicians Love Writing Political Biographies

Article excerpt

It made for a fine silly-season story to read that Boris Johnson was writing a book about Winston Churchill. Here we see a man, instantly recognisable and quite irrepressible, a master of wit and wordplay, from a privileged background yet with the common touch, always ready to parade his own vices to mock political correctness, and above all a bad party man with ill-concealed ambitions to get to the top. But which man?

The question is hardly new. When a living politician is drawn to be the biographer of a great statesman--that is, a dead politician--we are bound to wonder about the motivation. In the past, the usual reason was piety. An eminent former colleague or political disciple, preferably one with some literary bent, had to be recruited as the keeper of the bones of the saint. John Morley's life of his hero Gladstone is a classic example. What was expected was a work in at least two volumes, as the conventional "tombstone" biography. De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.

This was the format that Lytton Strachey mocked when he published Eminent Victorians in 1918. Still, even now, there is a palpable demand for a fitting commemoration of a deceased statesman--or stateswoman, of course. Charles Moore's justly acclaimed first volume on Margaret Thatcher, running to more than 800 pages and pre-cooked in her lifetime, was ready for publication within a week or so of her death. Moore is a former editor of the Daily Telegraph, and so his ideological credentials were hardly in doubt. But he took advantage of the more relaxed attitudes of today about what he could say, and the bunkum--whether personal or political--is refreshingly absent.

Even fewer constraints inhibit a politician when writing about a predecessor from a more distant era. Douglas Hurd had his own distinguished political career, rising to become Thatcher's last foreign secretary, in 1989, and contesting the Conservative leadership election after her downfall. While in office, he listed his recreation in Who's Who as "Writing thrillers" and he published many of them over the years; but now he just puts "Writing". His most recent book, on Disraeli, coauthored with the able young historian Edward Young, follows a similar work by him on Robert Peel in 2007. Both of these are notably well written, even thrilling at times.

Peel and Disraeli have often been regarded as the epitome of two rival traditions in Conservative politics. In this reading, Peel is the man of business. His family owned cotton mills and he brought a modern perspective to a party historically identified with the landed interest. In 1846 he affronted his backbenchers by repealing the Corn Laws. It seemed simply the right thing to do, recognising the reality of Britain as a manufacturing country that needed free trade.

The snag was that Peel split his party in the process. The Conservatives subsequently had no secure grasp on power for nearly 30 years. Not until Disraeli revitalised it was the party restored. He did this by projecting his rival vision of aristocratic paternalism, reinforced with democratic reforms that reached out to the working class, so that the "two nations" that he had famously identified were thus reconciled-or so the story goes.

It is easy to see why Hurd wrote sympathetically about Peel. No ideological Thatcherite, he had previously served Edward Heath, who, with his own U-turns, could well have looked to 1846 for their justification as markers of statesmanship. So, we might have expected a degree of scepticism in his assessment of Disraeli. True, the Disraelian bunkum is firmly in his sights: he repeatedly subjects "One-Nation Toryism"--let alone Ed Miliband's attempted appropriation of it as "one-nation Labour"--to scathing derision.

Hurd shows a deft touch in monitoring such exercises in ideological body-snatching. But this is not just a book by one politician about another: surely it is Hurd's own alternative career as a writer that impels him to recognise an affinity with a politician who also published novels--the last of them after he had served as prime minister. …

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