1Four years ago, when my novel on Joan of Arc was first published, it was reviewed in The Wall Street Journal by Maureen Corrigan. The review, which was a positive one, drew the attention—and ire—of a reader, who wrote, “Ms. Chen’s portrayal of St. Joan of Arc as an angry Amazon is a distortion of the historical record… Appeals to historical fiction’s privilege ‘to keep loose its tether to fact’ do not suffice, since such claims are understood to flesh out the personality of the protagonist as rooted in fact. Ms. Chen’s portrayal of Joan appears rooted in her own ideology.”

2While I was upset with the letter, it eventually became something of a treasured, if not subversive, memento of the novel’s publication journey. Time gave me the requisite perspective to view the letter more impartially, and I came to understand that it was possible for me to agree and disagree with the letter writer. I disagreed with the author’s view of the limitations of historical fiction, but what she had to say about my representation of Joan being the product of some of my most strongly held beliefs and convictions was, in retrospect, accurate and perceptive.

3I thought of this as I read James William Anderson’s Psychobiography: In Search of the Inner Life, an accessible and lively study of the field that highlights both the value of psychobiography and its many pitfalls. It may seem self-evident to write “that all authors are human beings who have their own complicated inner lives,” or that “[a] psychobiographical subject is never a robot but always a flesh-and-blood living person”; likewise: “[p]sychobiography consists of a human being studying another human being” (59). These statements appear obvious until one picks up a biography and realizes the extent to which we, the reader, take for granted the facts and conclusions presented by a written work. We have only, for instance, to skim through a Wikipedia page to discern how the profile of a historical figure, whether well-known or obscure, is the composite of statements both referenced and un-referenced, and how the information presented on that page has changed and will continue to evolve and update itself over time. It is a simple, even straightforward realization, that is, nonetheless, a gamechanger for the act of reading.

4Anderson’s examples are numerous and wide-ranging, from Lincoln and Oprah to Gandhi and Edith Wharton. The possibilities for delving deeper are limitless, as are the stumbling-blocks and potholes along the way. Psychobiography is useful as a general guide, a survey of what works and what does not in a field that is as endlessly fascinating and diverse as its subjects. Since Lincoln appears numerous times in Anderson’s work, it seems appropriate to quote from Steven Spielberg’s 2012 film, when Lincoln makes this comment to Thaddeus Stevens on the value of a compass: “It’ll point you true north from where you’re standing, but it’s got no advice about the swamps, deserts, and chasms that you’ll encounter along the way. If in pursuit of your destination, you plunge ahead heedless of obstacles and achieve nothing more than to sink in a swamp, what’s the use of knowing true north?” The same logic applies to the art of the biography. Despite good intentions, the level of care and consideration that researchers and scholars must devote to piecing together a psychobiographical work is conversely best demonstrated by the vast room for error: for personal and cultural bias, for skipping ahead and jumping to conclusions without sufficient validation or evidence, for misapplying psychological theory, for omitting a piece of research that later proves critical to altering or adjusting a viewpoint; the list goes on.

5Yet when the pieces fall into place, the findings may more than compensate for the difficulties. What renders Anderson’s book a compelling read is the wealth of stories that show psychobiography in practice. Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, for instance, takes on another dimension when the reader learns the extent of the romantic drama and turmoil in Miller’s own life, namely, the dissolution of his marriage and his passion for Marilyn Monroe. As Anderson writes, “In depicting John Proctor’s personal dilemma, Miller is struggling with, exploring, and expressing the parallel dilemma that he himself faced. As he was writing the play, internal forces strikingly similar to those that tore apart John plagued Miller…most crucially, his desire to see himself as a decent person” (198). Wharton’s novel, The Touchstone, expresses the author’s discontent with those who failed to “value her talents,” while establishing a “recognition of her own rare ability as a novelist” (209). Anderson also draws deft ties between the author’s romantic struggles and the writing of Ethan Frome. As he points out, “Wharton was never a man, never lived in a Massachusetts farmhouse, never had sparse financial resources, never fell in love with a servant, never attempted a double suicide. But in this work of fiction she expresses, struggles with, and lives through the same emotions that gripped her as she was writing the novel” (218).

6Some of the most thought-provoking analysis in Anderson’s work centers around William and Henry James and their complex sibling dynamic. From a photograph, Anderson studies the respective postures of the two brothers and how this revealed the nature of their relationship: “It shows William putting his arm around Henry, securing himself into the position of the older, superior brother who takes care of and supports his younger brother… [Henry] leans his head toward William in such a way that he looks like the younger, smaller brother, although in fact he was two or three inches taller than William” (230). The focus of Psychobiography is not to offer a study of the James brothers, though Anderson has done extensive work on William, in particular. Rather, Anderson stresses both the value of writing, especially when the psychobiographical subject’s own words are available for close examination (e.g. correspondence with friends and relations, diary entries), and the importance of having sufficient evidence from which to draw conclusions, while acknowledging that much may still remain speculative.

7If one were planning to venture into the intricate world of psychobiography, the value of Anderson’s volume would be self-evident. However, for those of us who harbor no such lofty ambitions of throwing our hat into the ring with the likes of Leon Edel, the greatest value of Psychobiography may rest in how it teaches readers to absorb information critically, to question what they read, and to forge new connections and associations of their own. As Anderson summarizes at the conclusion of the book, “Given that a biography inevitably employs psychology, what are the obstacles that the author encounters in using psychology, and how can the author execute a study as soundly, thoughtfully, and effectively as possible?” (247). It’s a thought-provoking question and one that not only extends to biography as a commercially popular genre and literary art form, but that also has far-reaching consequences for how we read and interpret literature. The point of psychobiography is not to provide a counterargument to the oft-repeated statement that a work should “stand on its own.” This would miss entirely the value and revelatory insight psychobiography has the power to provide. As Anderson explains, “Psychological theory should start the exploration, not end it… Psychobiography potentially sensitizes us to the heart of an artist’s work. Knowing about an artist’s emotional life helps us tune into the themes that matter most to the author, the themes that the author inevitably organizes the work around” (222).

8We have only to consider Edel’s influence on our perception of Henry James, the hold and virtual “monopoly” Edel wields over our comprehension of the Master, and the way in which his work has seeped into James’s legacy to begin to grasp the vital role psychobiography plays in shaping readers’ understanding of an author’s oeuvre. In fact, as Anderson shows by drawing on excerpts from Edel, William Todd Schultz, and Erik H. Erikson, it takes a certain level of genius to disseminate a life of genius. Thus, we may conclude with another seemingly self-evident takeaway, though a no less fascinating one: that the mosaic of facts and experiences that comprise a creative individual’s life may live on and continue to evolve with the same richness and potency as the work that was born from the individual’s imagination and talent.

9Biography is far from static but constantly regenerating. Like a never-finished sculpture, it is shaped and re-formed with the continual aid of time, social and cultural influences, and new authorial hands. If nothing else, Psychobiography reminds us of the human aspect of art in all its complexity and brilliance, with its various strengths and foibles. That art frequently feels inscrutable should not prove a barrier to attempts to better understand and explain it—just the opposite. As Anderson writes, “What possibly could feed artists’ imaginations except their inner concerns, conflicts, and preoccupations?” (188)