A DIARY TOO FAR
The media: Paul Johnson on the morals of putting private conversations in print
WHEN is a conversation confidential? Always, unless both or all parties agree to treat it otherwise. That has always been, and still is, my understanding of journalis- tic honour. The fact that the status of a conversation is ambiguous does not entitle a journalist to make it public. Once, in the 1950s, I was in Yugoslavia with a few others of my trade, and we saw the Prime Minister. Nothing was said about reporting his views. He was pretty frank. At the end I asked him: 'Is this conversation on the record?' There was an alarmed Serbo- Croat denial. Afterwards a colleague up- braided me: 'If you hadn't asked that idiotic question, we'd have got a story.' `Yes, but the poor fellow might have lost his head,' (Tito was a hard and vengeful man). The reason I had asked was that, some time before, I had had what I thought was an on-the-record chat with that excep- tionally nice Ulsterman, Terence O'Neill, then I think Finance Minister at Stormont. He had been indiscreet, I had published what he told me, and he had got into frightful trouble with the Unionist estab- lishment. He had obviously thought the talk was private but, realising there had been a genuine misunderstanding, and being a gentleman, he did not reproach me. But I was upset and determined not to make the same mistake again. I would rather lose a story than risk breaching a confidence. Does that make me a bad Journalist? Maybe, but then to such charges I always reply: 'But I'm not really a journalist, I'm a historian.' In history, everyone is dead, no holds are barred and the most anguished private journal can be gutted.
I raise this point because I have been looking at the recently published diary kept by the cartoonist Nicholas Garland about his departure from the Daily Tele- graph and his arrival at the Independent. One object of publishing the diary, while ostensibly to serve the public interest by recording the crisis at the first and the birth of the second, is in reality — or so it seems to me — to demonstrate the extraordinary exertions made by the Telegraph to retain Garland's services and the equally stre- nuous efforts of the Independent to acquire them. In short, the book comes across as an elaborate exercise in self-glorification, hidden behind a cunning smokescreen in which the author presents himself as diffi- dent, self-effacing, shy, insecure and sensi- tive.
But like people who are ultra-sensitive about their own feelings, Garland seems a little careless, shall we say, about those of other people. (Ted Heath is an excellent example of this syndrome). Had he cared what people felt, he would not have published his book, which prints private conversations verbatim and records un- guarded remarks spoken in folly, jest, anger or jealousy. It has, no doubt, a gruesome fascination for those involved in the business, though to outsiders much of it will seem pointless. It must be hideously embarrassing to many of those quoted, as well as hurtful to some whose frailties are ruthlessly dissected by those they had looked on as friends, or at least amiable acquaintances. Many will feel themselves let down, as indeed they have been. Some disagreeable portraits emerge — of Bill Deedes, Garland's well-disposed editor, of his successor Max Hastings, who (accord- ing to the author) fought so hard to keep him, of Andrew Knight, of Anthony Ho- ward, who made the mistake of sharing his thoughts with the diarist, and many others. Curiously enough, one of those who does not come out too well is Garland's wife, who emerges as a bit too always-on-the- ball for some tastes.
Diaries have always posed delicate prob- lems of taste and ethics. Lord Beaverbrook used to say that Field Marshal Haig 'com- mitted suicide 20 years after his death' when his rather mean-minded journals were printed. He recorded, for instance, how much brandy his guests drank at GHQ, especially if it was excessive. (Our cartoonist notes the number of rich choco- lates consumed on his premises: his present editor, Andreas Whittam Smith, comes out as rather greedy.) James Boswell was fairly widely known to be keeping a diary and some people avoided him in consequence or at least were guarded about what they said in his presence. Some even thought his Life of Johnson was a breach of confi- dence, but a careful examination shows that Boswell, on the whole, plays fair with everyone. Those who might have had cause to complain, such as Goldsmith and Garrick, were all dead. Burke, who was still alive when the book appeared, was handled with great discretion, and the only instance of malice was one or two digs at Mrs Piozzi, Boswell's rival.
Until recently, at least, society has been hard on those who make use for journalis- tic purposes of material acquired in private conversation. The classic case was the `Garrick Club Affair' of 1858, when a journalist called Edmund Yates, described as 'a literary gutterscraper' — who later served four months' imprisonment for cri- minal libel — published a nasty profile of W. M. Thackeray, in which, so the novelist claimed, he made use of conversations he had with him in the Garrick. As a result Yates was expelled from the club. The affair caused quite a stir since Charles Dickens, whose relations with his great rival were always uneasy, sided with Yates. Could such a thing happen today? Quite possibly. I can't say about the Garrick, but if a member of the Beefsteak Club, where people sit at a common table, published material he garnered there in such a way as to cause embarrassment, I imagine he might well be in trouble. As for Garland, opinion about him varies. Anthony How- ard, a charitable soul, takes the view that as he has supported the publication of Richard Crossman's diaries he can't very well grumble about his own private observations appearing in cold and sorry print. Others are more severe. In any case I imagine few people will be prepared to speak their minds in future if there is any possibility of Garland being in earshot. If he is as sensitive as he likes to think, he will probably notice certain changes as time goes by. Civilisation and its rules may be a frustrating place but once you choose the jungle, you can't expect mercy. 'The hor- ror, the horror!' as Conrad put it (Joseph, of course, not Black).
Previous page
