Greatness. Genius. Can you bottle it? Is there a formula? Inspired by his Radio 4 series Great Lives, Matthew Parris delves into the childhood background of some big names to see whether there are common denominators, and rather gives the game away in the title, Fracture: Stories of How Great Lives Take Root in Trauma.
He zig-zags between the territories of greatness and genius in his choice of mini-biographies, and slightly blurs the two concepts. Of course there’s a bit of difference between greatness and genius. I wouldn’t dispute that Edith Piaf was a great performer or that Coco Chanel was a great designer — but genius? That can only apply to, say, Marie Curie with her two Nobel prizes.
The roll-call of celebs here invites some debate as to their merits. I admire Louise Bourgeois’s work, but it’s never made my jaw drop — although the story of her mother keeping a pile of saucers next to the dinner table so that the temperamental father would have something cheap to smash if he had a tantrum pretty much justifies her inclusion.
Kipling was made to parade through the streets of Southsea wearing a placard with ‘Liar’ on it
‘Neither friend nor foe questions his genius,’ Parris writes of Tupac Shakur. In which case let me be of service. His commercial success aside, Shakur was an adequate rapper who brought little to the genre, and was a so-so actor: his apotheosis was because he was lucky enough to be shot dead in sexy, intriguing, unit-shifting circumstances. If you want a black musician who overcame an appalling childhood and poverty to reach success, offer hope and create something new, how about James Brown?
There’s a great deal of misery in these pages: poverty, bereavement, illness, isolation, unadulterated cruelty.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in