Near the end of this engaging biography of a biography, Sisman quotes Samuel Johnson: “I write therefore I am alive.” The same could be said, even more so, for Boswell, and the primary virtue of Sisman’s book is his ability to show in dramatic and entertaining detail just how much B. created his own eccentric life through writing. Sisman’s goal is to prove that B. was a literary artist of great skill himself, and not the sychophantic “stenographer” and boorish “idiot” that more than a few of his contemporaries thought. Toward that end, S. provides a fasincating portrait of a writer at work under conditions, many of them of his own making, that most of us would find something less than conducive for achieving literary fame: a social calendar that would’ve made Truman Capote blanch; excessive drinking and whoring; working as a traveling lawyer; and prolonged bouts of severe melancholia that rendered him nearly paralyzed. But write he did, producing a personal journal thousands of pages long, in which he recorded seemingly every thought and sensation that ran through his mind, and every utterance that passed his ears. These journals provided the material for his famous bio of Johnson; but they also demonstrate B’s working methods in ways that contradict simplistic image of him as nothing more than faithful and diligent collector of table-talk. Instead, he made quick notes, often lists of unconnected quotes and details – “ a portable soup,” he called them -- which he would return to later, “when my mind was, as it were, impregnated with the Johnsonian ether, I could, with much more facility and exactness, carry in my memory and commit to paper the exuberant variety of his wisdom and wit.” B. not only relied heavily on his memory, but acknowledged the subjective nature of that memory. If this sounds suspciously like methods of much creative nonfiction practiced today, with all its virtues and potential abuses, one might argue that B. was more of a forerunner for Norman Mailer than John McPhee, though he was also obsessive, a la McPhee, in collecting and verifying every scrap of information about J’s life he could find. Sisman also gives B. credit for reinventing the genre of biography. Before B’s work, Sisman explains, the purpose of a good biography was to provide a model of uplifting and noble character, confirming in the public’s mind an already existing image of a famous and revered figure like Johnson. B., on the other hand, insisted on presenting a more complex – more human – portrait of Johnson by including anecdotes and quotes that showed him in a less flattering light. What he wanted, most of all, was an “authentic” portrayal of his friend, a heroic figure sometimes burdened, like all of us, with his own baggage of petty and venal qualities. B. succeeded so well, S argues, as both a skilled writer and literary innovator that his critics admitted they found the book both engrossing in its description and voice, and appalling in its lack of respect for J’s private life. At this point, one can’t help but wonder to what degree B. created the conditions for our current plague of “celebrity” bios by the likes of Kitty Kelley, et al. (An unfair swipe at KK, possibly, since no less an august journal than The American Scholar, recently published a respectful profile of her.) Sadly, at the end of his life, B. was seen more as a boorish gossip than a literary star; his reputation did not begin to recover until the early 20th c., when scholars acquired his voluminous journals and letters and realized how much of a craftsman and innovator he really was.
A former teacher of mine, the poet Gary Gildner, once said, “All writing comes out of chaos.” For anyone interested in the messy process of creating art out of chaos, I think Sisman’s book provides a more insightful and far more entertaining model than many of the writing guides and self-help books available today. What really holds this book together, though, is the ever exasperating and aggravating, sometimes pathetic, sad and comical but also heroic character of James Boswell. S’s book, as it picks up momentum, reads more like a novel with a highly flawed but sympathetic protagonist who achieved greatness, however belatedly bestowed, both despite and because of his own eccentric but inspiring character. In a way, ironically, though he provides ample evidence of the kind of authentic tawdry details of B’s own life early critics assailed in his portrait of Johnson, Sisman also reaffirms the original goal of biography: to instruct, inspire and uplift.
(If I wanted to be picky, I might knock off a half star for Sisman’s determination to chronicle B’s every step in collecting documents from Johnson’s life, a strategy that rereates on the page his subject’s own overly scrupulous if obsessive desire to create an “authetic” portrait. A kind of homage, perhaps, rewarded with the virtue of capturing the authentic Boswell – assuming S. doesn’t take the same literary liberties that B. did with his subject.)