Biography as a literary genre occupies an uncomfortable middle ground between history and fiction. It claims the authority of fact — a biographer must account for every significant claim with evidence — while demanding the readability and psychological coherence of a novel. The biographer faces a particular problem: the subject’s inner life. External events — dates, letters, deeds, appointments — can be documented. What a person felt, intended, or believed at a given moment is often unknowable, yet biographers cannot afford to leave it blank. A life, if it is to be readable, must have psychological continuity.
The temptation is to fill the gap with inference — to construct a plausible inner life from the available evidence. Done carefully, this is the biographer’s art. Done carelessly, it is fiction masquerading as history. The best biographers are those who are transparent about the limits of their knowledge: who say ‘he may have felt’ rather than ‘he felt,’ and who distinguish between what the evidence supports and what the narrative requires.
This tension between what is known and what is inferred has intensified in the age of authorised biography. When a subject, or their estate, controls access to private papers and can withdraw that access, the biographer’s independence is compromised. The authorised biography may be the most thoroughly researched account of a life, and also the least candid.