Atlas notes critics of biography

We biographers have always done our work amid a loud chorus of negativity. Oscar Wilde famously observed that biography "lends to death a new terror." Joyce feared "biografiends." Nabokov, too, derided the biographer's efforts: "I hate tampering with the precious lives of great writers and I hate Tom-peeping over the fence of those lives--I hate the vulgarity of human interest." Then there was George Eliot, who asked, "Is it not odious that as soon as a man is dead his desk is raked, and every insignificant memorandum which he never meant for the public is printed for the gossiping amusement of people too idle to read his book?"

Even members of the profession disparage it. Edmund White, the biographer of Jean Genet, called biography the revenge of the little people on the big people. And Michael Holroyd, after a lifetime of helping to elevate the form, has decided that biographers are "parasites. . . intent on reducing all that is imaginative, all that is creative in literature, to pedestrian autobiography." We compete with our subjects, he contends in "Two Cheers for Biography," writing big bulky books that overshadow their beautifully crafted masterpieces. We trade on their fame.