The Life of Johnson may be regarded as a representative psychological expression of the Age of Enlightenment, and it certainly epitomizes several typical characteristics of that age: devotion to urban life, confidence in common sense, emphasis on man as a social being. Yet in its extravagant pursuit of the life of one individual, in its laying bare the eccentricities and suggesting the inner turmoil of personality, it may be thought of as part of that revolution in self-awareness, ideas, aspirations, exemplified in Rousseau’s Confessions, the French Revolution, the philosophical writings of the German philosopher Immanuel Kant, the political tracts of Thomas Paine, and the works of such early Romantic poets as Robert Burns, William Blake, Wordsworth—a revolution that in its concern with the individual psyche and the freedom of man seemed to augur well for biographical literature. This promise, however, was not fulfilled in the 19th century.

That new nation, the United States of America, despite the stimulus of a robust and optimistic society, flamboyant personalities on the frontier, a generous share of genius, and the writing of lives by eminent authors such as Washington Irving and Henry James, produced no biographies of real importance. One professional biographer, James Parton, published competent, well-researched narratives, such as his lives of Aaron Burr and Andrew Jackson, but they brought him thin rewards and are today outmoded. In France, biography was turned inward, to romantic introspection, a trend introduced by Étienne Pivert de Senancour’s Obermann (1804). It was followed by autobiographies thinly disguised as novels such as Benjamin Constant’s Adolphe (1816), La Vie de Henri Brulard of Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle), and similar works by Alphonse de Lamartine and Alfred de Musset, in which the emotional malaise of the hero is subjected to painstaking analysis. In Great Britain the 19th century opened promisingly with an outburst of biographical–autobiographical production, much of which came from prominent figures of the Romantic Movement, including Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Robert Southey, William Hazlitt, and Thomas De Quincey. Thomas Moore’s Letters and Journals of Lord Byron (1830), John Gibson Lockhart’s elaborate life (1837–38) of his father-in-law, Sir Walter Scott, and, later, Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë (1857), James Anthony Froude’s study of Carlyle (2 vol. 1882; 2 vol. 1884), John Forster’s Life of Charles Dickens (1872–74) all followed, to some degree, what may loosely be called the Boswell formula. Yet most of these major works are marred by evasions and omissions of truth—though Lockhart and Froude, for example, were attacked as conscienceless despoilers of the dead—and, before the middle of the century, biography was becoming stifled. As the 20th century biographer and critic Sir Harold Nicolson wrote in The Development of English Biography (1927), “Then came earnestness, and with earnestness hagiography descended on us with its sullen cloud.” Insistence on respectability, at the expense of candour, had led Carlyle to observe acridly, “How delicate, how decent is English biography, bless its mealy mouth!” and to pillory its productions as “vacuum-biographies.”

20th century

The period of modern biography was ushered in, generally speaking, by World War I. All the arts were in ferment, and biographical literature shared in the movement, partly as a reaction against 19th-century conventions, partly as a response to advances in psychology, and partly as a search for new means of expression. This revolution, unlike that at the end of the 18th century, was eventually destined to enlarge and enhance the stature of biography. The chief developments of modern life writing may be conveniently classified under five heads: (1) an increase in the numbers and general competence of biographies throughout the Western world; (2) the influence on biographical literature of the counterforces of science and fictional writing; (3) the decline of formal autobiography and of biographies springing from a personal relationship; (4) the range and variety of biographical expression; and (5) the steady, though moderate, growth of a literature of biographical criticism. Only the first three of these developments need much elaboration.

Little has been said about biography since the Renaissance in Germany, Spain, Italy, Scandinavia, and the Slavic countries because, as in the case of Russia, there had been comparatively little biographical literature and because biographical trends, particularly since the end of the 18th century, generally followed those of Britain and France. Russian literary genius in prose is best exemplified during both the 19th and 20th centuries in the novel. In the 19th century, however, Leo Tolstoy’s numerous autobiographical writings, such as Childhood and Boyhood, and Sergey Aksakov’s Years of Childhood and A Russian Schoolboy, and in the 20th century, Maxim Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy (Childhood; In the World; and My Universities, 1913–23) represent, in specialized form, a limited biographical activity. The close control of literature exercised by the 20th-century communist governments of eastern Europe has created a wintry climate for biography. The rest of Europe, outside the iron curtain, has manifested in varying degrees the fresh biographical energies and practices illustrated in British–American life writing: biography is now, as never before, an international art that shares a more or less common viewpoint.

The second characteristic of modern biography, its being subject to the opposing pressures of science and fictional writing, has a dark as well as a bright side. Twentieth-century fiction, boldly and restlessly experimental, has, on the one hand, influenced the biographer to aim at literary excellence, to employ devices of fiction suitable for biographical ends; but, on the other, fiction has also probably encouraged the production of popular pseudobiography, hybrids of fact and fancy, as well as of more subtle distortions of the art form. Science has exerted two quite different kinds of pressure: the prestige of the traditional sciences, in their emphasis on exactitude and rigorous method, has undoubtedly contributed to a greater diligence in biographical research and an uncompromising scrutiny of evidences; but science’s vast accumulating of facts—sometimes breeding the worship of fact for its own sake—has helped to create an atmosphere in which today’s massive, note-ridden and fact-encumbered lives proliferate and has probably contributed indirectly to a reluctance in the scholarly community to take the risks inevitable in true biographical composition.

The particular science of psychology, as earlier pointed out, has conferred great benefits upon the responsible practitioners of biography. It has also accounted in large part, it would appear, for the third characteristic of modern biography: the decline of formal autobiography and of the grand tradition of biography resulting from a personal relationship. For psychology has rendered the self more exposed but also more elusive, more fascinatingly complex and, in the darker reaches, somewhat unpalatable. Since honesty would force the autobiographer into a self-examination both formidable to undertake and uncomfortable to publish, instead he generally turns his attention to outward experiences and writes memoirs and reminiscences—though France offers something of an exception in the journals of such writers as André Gide (1947–51), Paul Valéry (1957), François Mauriac (1934–50), Julien Green (1938–58). Similarly, psychology, in revealing the fallacies of memory, the distorting power of an emotional relationship, the deceits of observation, has probably discouraged biography written by a friend of its subject. Moreover, so many personal papers are today preserved that a lifelong friend of the subject scarcely has time to complete his biography.

After World War I, the work of Lytton Strachey played a somewhat similar role to that of Boswell in heading a “revolution” in biography. Eminent Victorians and Queen Victoria (1921), followed by Elizabeth and Essex (1928), with their artful selection, lacquered style, and pervasive irony, exerted an almost intoxicating influence in the 1920s and ’30s. Writers seeking to capitalize on Strachey’s popularity and ape Strachey’s manner, without possessing Strachey’s talents, produced a spate of “debunking” biographies zestfully exposing the clay feet of famous historical figures. By World War II, however, this kind of biography had been discredited; Strachey’s adroit detachment and literary skill were recognized to be his true value, not his dangerously interpretative method; and, since that time, biography has steadied into an established, if highly varied, form of literature.