Presidential memoirs

Politicians normally think about politics. It's what they know. And when they leave office, they normally write their memoirs. In the United States, for example, every president since World War II has written memoirs about his years in office, the only exception being Kennedy, for obvious reasons.

The presidency may be seen as an eminence from which to obtain a good overview of events. Indeed, Lyndon Johnson titled his memoirs The Vantage Point. Though most memoirs share the purpose of self-justification, other motives exist. Ulysses S. Grant, the Civil War general who then served two terms (1869-77) as president, wrote his memoirs for money, one of his editors being Mark Twain; and when he died shortly after their publication, his widow received $400,000. Their formal elegance suggests that Mark Twain had more to do with their composition than the "few slight changes" he admitted to.

Ghost writers have always abounded in the presidential-memoir genre. What politicians normally admit to is "assistance," while some take a humorous line. At the press conference where he presented An American Life, Ronald Reagan said: "I've heard it's an excellent book. One of these days I'll read it."

Nowadays presidents, American ones at least, normally have enough money to live on when they step down, though this was not always so. Harry S. Truman, who left office in 1953, was short on cash (before the days of presidential pensions) and decided to sell his memoirs, receiving an advance of $670,000. Bill Clinton was probably not so hard up, but he got an advance of $10 million for My Life.

History will judge us favorably," Churchill said to Roosevelt and Stalin in Tehran in 1943, "because I will write the history"

Turning from such anecdotes to the actual content of presidential memoirs, they often repay a reading, just to observe how presidents see themselves and the others around them, and to observe, by way of the sources and evidence they adduce, how deeds do not always square with words. This is especially true of politicians who write memoirs conceived as propaganda pamphlets.

"History will judge us favorably," Churchill said to Roosevelt and Stalin in Tehran in 1943, "because I will write the history." His six volumes on World War II still enjoy a good reputation. But others, who had hoped to redeem themselves by writing their own version of what happened, fell flat. Nixon's self-justifying memoirs, for example, failed to change the verdict of Watergate.

Presidential wives, too, have written memoirs, some of which sell better than their husbands'. Living History was the title of Hillary Clinton's successful memoirs, preceded by those of the wives of Johnson, Ford, Carter and Reagan. Eleanor Roosevelt is a case apart because she changed the role that presidential wives had formerly played, being herself an energetic defender of a number of causes, and a prolific writer of articles and columns.

Compared with such works, the first installment of the memoirs of the former Spanish Prime Minister José María Aznar (up to 1999) is a flat story, remarkably predictable, showing us a man who is honest, austere, quick-minded, unambitious and eager to work for Spain, the "raison d'être" of his political life. No proof, sources or references are ever offered, his own word apparently supplying sufficient credibility. Nor are any allusions made to literature or culture by a man who says his father taught him to "love books." Nothing relevant is said about the construction of democracy after Franco. Much, however, is said about friends, loyalties and favors, repaid in the same coin in which they were given.

For the historian, the reliability of sources is essential. Stylistic skill in narrating the past is an attraction, though often absent. This is why few of these books stand the test time, though they call on the judgment of history.

Julián Casanova is a professor of contemporary history at the University of Zaragoza.