Imagine a world where the intimate whispers of history vanish forever, swallowed by algorithms and AI—could the soul of biography disappear with them? This provocative question lingers as we ponder the future of storytelling through lives lived, and it's one that might just make you rethink how we preserve our past.
Picture this: stacks of handwritten letters, dusty journals filled with personal musings, hastily scribbled notes, fragile boxes overflowing with yellowed photographs and brittle newspaper cuttings. These aren't just relics; they're the vibrant pulse of biographical writing, combined with openly available public documents to create rich, layered portraits of people from days gone by.
Over the last few years, I've immersed myself in exactly these kinds of treasures while delving into the life of Dame Quentin Bryce, Australia's pioneering female governor-general. Uncovering hidden gems that exposed her deepest reflections and unseen conversations was exhilarating, but it also sparked a burning curiosity: How will upcoming biographers navigate this landscape?
And this is the part most people miss—letters and diaries stand out as irreplaceable treasures. Crafting a letter involves a distinctive mental dance, with the pen dancing across the paper, spilling forth ideas, raw feelings, and occasionally secret admissions. Even the script itself mirrors the writer's character and mood, like an extension of their very being.
Take Julia Baird, the acclaimed author of Victoria: The Queen, a captivating biography of Britain's iconic monarch. She emphasizes how essential these elements were: "Without Queen Victoria's extensive collection of letters and diaries, my book would have been much slimmer and shallower. It would've lacked authenticity, more like fumbling through mist than clearly seeing her style—how frequently she wrote, the phrases she chose, the ones she scratched out, the words she emphasized with italics, bold and full of passion."
Baird cherishes the tactile experience too, flipping through those pages in archives, feeling the worn texture beneath her fingers, and watching Victoria's handwriting fluctuate with her emotions. This isn't just about content; it's about grasping what's absent as well. Biographical sleuthing demands patience and excitement, weaving together clues, often chasing false leads to unearth the real story.
"A big chunk of my investigative journey involved figuring out which diaries were destroyed, revised, or hidden, and which letters were excluded from published editions," Baird explains. "This insight is key to seeing how women have been overlooked or misinterpreted throughout history." For instance, she notes that Victoria's fiery spirit was often softened by later editors, and her views on motherhood were diluted. In her most unguarded writings, like those to her eldest daughter, we learn that the petite queen, idolized as the epitome of Victorian marriage and parenting, actually saw brides as sacrificial lambs heading to the altar.
But here's where it gets controversial—biographers don't merely decode private scribbles; they weave them into the broader historical tapestry, potentially reshaping our understanding of events. This is the adrenaline rush that quickens a writer's heart, exploring the ripple effects of these valuable sources.
As Sophie Loy-Wilson, a senior lecturer in Australian History at the University of Sydney, puts it: "Letters are pivotal for grasping history. Countless groundbreaking political and social concepts aimed at enhancing society sprang from epistolary exchanges—individuals debating, sharing ideas through famous correspondences." Yet, in today's fast-paced world, when was the last time you penned or received a real letter?
Digital messages simply can't measure up. An email, a quick text, or an emoji-laden social post lacks the depth. Loy-Wilson points out: "Letters often reveal the uncertainties and hesitations someone held about their convictions. We've lost this creative outlet; I hardly compose emails now, opting for voice recordings instead."
This leads to another layer of complexity: digital communications and data. Will these survive for future generations? Lost passwords and mass deletions to clear cloud space raise doubts about accessibility. Beyond logistics, can biographers rely on virtual repositories?
Baird finds this troubling: "Physical letters and archives feel so gratifying because they're typically straightforward and unaltered. But digital versions risk tampering by various groups, turning verification into a nightmare." She wonders aloud: "Will future historians need programming skills? Will people safeguard electronic files and donate them to libraries as diligently as they did with crates of papers and notebooks? Passwords and barriers might create major obstacles for heirs and scholars."
In my work on Dame Quentin Bryce, photographs emerged as deeply personal aids, filling my book to enrich her narrative. Images capture fleeting moments, facial expressions, bonds, and pivotal events.
Of course, we still snap photos galore on smartphones daily, storing them in clouds, devices, or digital folders. Some meticulous folks back them up elsewhere with vital records. I thought I'd mastered this with my external drives for research and images across two decades of books—only to hit a snag when the drives or file types clashed with my modern laptop. Storage tech becomes dated rapidly, a reminder of obsolescence.
Author and journalist Nikki Gemmell, who drew on old pictures for her mother's memoir After, shares this blend of nostalgia and practicality. "I'm fond of both traditional and digital photos. I had loads from the 1950s, when my mom modeled in Newcastle's Hunter Valley, plus shots from the 1930s and 1940s."
To chronicle her family's story, Gemmell diligently compiles albums annually. "Each December, I review the year's photos, print hundreds, and paste them into blank books with handwritten notes about the memories. I've been doing this since my first child—it's a 24- or 25-year chronicle of our life, and it matters deeply."
Now, will AI pen the biographies of tomorrow? One hopes public archives adapt with cutting-edge software and hardware to prevent losses and boost availability. But Loy-Wilson harbors doubts: "This shift to digital is humanity's biggest information revolution. It's empowering, democratizing access. Yet, this treasure trove hides its management, leaving us at the mercy of what's offered—decisions influenced by budgets and institutional pressures, often ignored by policymakers, which is disgraceful."
She contrasts this with careful preservation of old collections, like the National Library of Australia's Patrick White archive, curated faithfully to the creator's vision. Today, algorithms and AI dictate visibility, prioritizing ease over accuracy. For biographers, this is a red flag—algorithms making selections can skew the process.
And then there's the murky realm of AI scraping and blending data without proper attribution. Renowned British biographer Nigel Hamilton predicts biography's heyday of thorough inquiry will fade as AI infiltrates literature, with dwindling archive funding, culminating in machine-generated bios.
"This scenario seems inevitable," Baird laments. "I'll always champion human-authored books. Biography explores humanity's essence—our imperfections and triumphs. Biographers grapple with a subject's complex psyche: tainted and pure drives, kindness amid selfishness, bravery versus fear."
Quentin Bryce: The Authorised Biography by Juliet Rieden, published by Penguin Random House.
What do you think—could AI ever truly replicate the nuanced empathy of a human biographer, or is this just the end of an era? Do you fear digital archives are too vulnerable to manipulation? Share your opinions below; I'd love to hear debates on this!
