Books that hold letters of popular personalities, both personal and professional, are often published posthumously in an attempt to immortalize them. I enjoy reading letters and think they give me an insight into what a person truly was like - especially if they were writers or actors who portrayed only a part or none of their real selves in the public realm. It’s an intimate way of getting to know and, maybe, fall in love with those personalities even more than I did through the work I know them for.
Two months ago, I found 'Life in Letters', a book that put together all of P. G. Wodehouse's letters chronologically. Needless to say, I bounded with the kind of antiquarian joy that cannot be contained in a quiet bookstore, so I wielded my puny cash and clasped the goodness to my beating heart.
While reading the introduction to ‘Life in Letters’, I found it mentions that compiling this volume of letters comprehensively took a long time to achieve, and that this is the first time his life has been put in any kind of biographical order. PGW was a private man, hated intrusions into his life, and, even in his character sketches and writings, refrained from drawing parallels from his own life. He claimed that biographical evidence was irrelevant to understanding a work of art, and didn’t think his private life influenced his work in any way.
Despite the fact that this is a man of historical significance to the field of literature and that there are thousands of people eager to know what he actually was like, is it fair to abuse what he preserved all through his life simply because he’s long gone? By being famous and popular, does one automatically sign an unwritten contract to be stripped down bare and investigated? I'm worried about how unethical this is.
I feel Wodehouse frowning down on me for prying into his life and personal letters - letters that he probably wrote in the privacy of his home, that he was certain would find the eyes he intended them for alone. The cover of this book sports him smiling broadly, but I doubt that’s how he feels. I’m still wildly excited to know more about his life, to know what made him come up with the characters I’ve grown up reading, what drove the stories he created, how the brain of this genius of wit functioned. I want to put myself in the shoes of every recipient and fantasize about how it feels to hear from that beautiful mind - but this goes against his wishes. PGW, being someone I have respected, looked up to and loved for years, is haunting my conscience, and I'm convinced that I'm committing sacrilege.
Two months ago, I found 'Life in Letters', a book that put together all of P. G. Wodehouse's letters chronologically. Needless to say, I bounded with the kind of antiquarian joy that cannot be contained in a quiet bookstore, so I wielded my puny cash and clasped the goodness to my beating heart.
While reading the introduction to ‘Life in Letters’, I found it mentions that compiling this volume of letters comprehensively took a long time to achieve, and that this is the first time his life has been put in any kind of biographical order. PGW was a private man, hated intrusions into his life, and, even in his character sketches and writings, refrained from drawing parallels from his own life. He claimed that biographical evidence was irrelevant to understanding a work of art, and didn’t think his private life influenced his work in any way.
Despite the fact that this is a man of historical significance to the field of literature and that there are thousands of people eager to know what he actually was like, is it fair to abuse what he preserved all through his life simply because he’s long gone? By being famous and popular, does one automatically sign an unwritten contract to be stripped down bare and investigated? I'm worried about how unethical this is.
I feel Wodehouse frowning down on me for prying into his life and personal letters - letters that he probably wrote in the privacy of his home, that he was certain would find the eyes he intended them for alone. The cover of this book sports him smiling broadly, but I doubt that’s how he feels. I’m still wildly excited to know more about his life, to know what made him come up with the characters I’ve grown up reading, what drove the stories he created, how the brain of this genius of wit functioned. I want to put myself in the shoes of every recipient and fantasize about how it feels to hear from that beautiful mind - but this goes against his wishes. PGW, being someone I have respected, looked up to and loved for years, is haunting my conscience, and I'm convinced that I'm committing sacrilege.
