Although history is one of my greatest passions, I’ve never had much interest in the Presidents of the United States. They seem to be -with the exception of Abraham Lincoln- mediocrity personified, as they’re usually only as great as the people around them. I’d much rather read about the impact of their decisions on the people, or about their First Ladies. I find it fascinating how they fulfil a public role that comes with conflicting expectations, no real executive power and no paycheck. How they deal with the inevitable misogyny and sexism, as well as the most pressing issues of their day (if they do so at all.)
So why did I read this book? Because I wanted to learn about literature, readers and writers. It was illuminating to discover that, for example, both abolitionists and pro-slavery advocates found their arguments in Thomas Jefferson’s writings, which paints a picture of the man’s monumental hypocrisy. He believed that black people were inferior to whites, but that didn’t stop him from raping and impregnating Sally Hemings.
The chapter about John Adams and Benjamin Franklin was more entertaining, especially when the author compares their approach to writing their autobiographies. Franklin hid behind his sense of humour and aimed to be didactic, as did most of the books of his time. By contrast, John Adams was surprisingly honest, even by today’s standards. He could be petty and resentful, but also warm and vulnerable.
Fehrman also discusses society’s attitudes towards literature and the evolution of the publishing industry, and includes stories of common readers, some of whom went on to make literary history themselves, like Richard Wright and Toni Morrison. This broader perspective was a welcome respite from all the political score-keeping and whitewashing of events that went with the presidency.
Where Fehrman started to rub me the wrong way was in his defence of ghostwriting. I find this practice dishonest and even offensive; writing is hard, and if anyone with enough money and power can attach their name to a book, it undermines the struggles and talents of real writers. On page 217, Fehrman asserts:
What the ghostwriting scolds miss, in their solipsistic focus on the act of writing, is that while writing is important and difficult, it is hardly life’s only important and difficult task. For those who struggle with translating their ideas and emotions into words -and here George Washington’s example cuts a different way- ghostwriting makes sense as long as both partners take it seriously.
Well, Mr. Fehrman, if writing is solipsistic and hardly one of life’s most important tasks, then why should anyone bother to write at all? Why should anyone care enough about something to put it in words? If someone without writing ability wants to tell their story, I’d have no problem if they employed a writer to do so, as long as their name appeared on the cover and the fact wasn’t swept under the rug in order to claim sole authorship and get the clout without the work - as John F. Kennedy did with Profiles in Courage. That chapter demonstrates my issues with ghostwriting, and even Fehrman has to concede it was an example of Kennedy’s essential dishonesty.
On the other hand, learning that Abraham Lincoln not only did his own writing but was obsessive about it (in an interview, Fehrman described him as “his own author and his own man”) has been a relief, though I didn’t expect anything less from him.
With malice toward none, with charity for all...
But the chapter about Barack Obama lost the plot completely. Using Obama’s own words, Fehrman describes how his reading of fiction shaped his empathy, the ability to see many sides of an issue, which continued into his presidency. Fehrman then brings into consideration a lecture by Woodrow Wilson about men who write and men who act. Wilson came to the conclusion that the “subtle power of sympathy” became an obstacle for elected officials, since they didn’t need to imagine “a thousand different motives,” just to simplify and fight.
While I agree that considering all sides often creates self-doubt, inaction and rolling over to others, empathy is always necessary. The world is in such a state because of leaders who use dispassionate reason to justify themselves. But Fehrman goes on to ask that if Wilson’s theory was right and no popular leader could write fiction, could they (or should they) read it? In the epilogue, he even writes: “It’s not clear that being literary makes one an effective president.” I was flabbergasted.
If Barack Obama was ineffective, it had nothing to do with literature or empathy. It was an inherent flaw, not a learned one. The example that undoes Fehrman’s (and Wilson’s) theory is Abraham Lincoln’s. Lincoln was a voracious reader in an era where books were rare and expensive, but he was willing to go to great lengths to get them (p. 119). He would examine a problem for so long that it kept him up at night or made him work himself into a near tantrum (p. 118). He had no formal education, and yet, he not only led the country through one of its greatest crises and did so successfully, but also wrote some unforgettable literature that people recognize to this day, a century and a half after his death.
So I don’t understand the point of Fehrman’s question. Is he agreeing with Wilson? Is he saying that leaders should act and not philosophize? That would leave no room for learning, growing, changing. The theory is so reductive that it forgets there’s a time to ponder and a time to act. That applies to everyone. The difference is that great leaders know when to do what.