What is missing is a certain largeness of mind, an amplitude of style, the mantle of a calling, a sense of historical dignity.
—Mary McCarthy, in “The Vassar Girl,” 1951

When a writer with a large reputation and a strong public personality quits the scene after many years in the limelight, there inevitably follows a period of uncertainty in which posterity—the cruellest of all critics— has not yet determined its verdict, and briefs for the defense are given every opportunity to dominate the discussion. The eulogies sound the appropriate note of piety and praise; the remaining manuscripts, ceremoniously augmented by glowing testimonials, are rushed into print; the favor of a friendly assessment is more or less assured; and the author’s name is everywhere draped in respectful mourning. The literary world makes its obeisances to one of its own, and even the writer’s enemies refrain from casting doubt upon the manufacture of encomia.

Nowadays, moreover, there is likely to be added to this chorus of acclaim a promptly produced biography of the subject as well, for today’s biographers gather their materials long before the body is buried and are no longer deterred by a sense of delicacy about the feelings of the immediate survivors. It might even be said that the timely publication of such a biography, precisely because it is certain to raise even more questions than it answers, is likely to bring this period of respectful mourning to a close. For biography, especially as it