FURTHERMORE

Why it is better to be kept in the dark

PETRONELLA WYATT

It was Francis Bacon who is alleged to have said that knowledge is power. Bacon, in the words of Bertrand Russell, was a man who 'rose to eminence by betraying his friends', so one presumes that he knew something about it.

Bacon's dictum is a conventional mantra of modern life, whether public or private. One cannot help thinking, however, that it may be a fallible guide. If knowledge is power, there are some instances in which it is really much better to remain powerless.

In order to be happy, we require all sorts of props for our self-regard. One of the troubles about vanity is that it grows with what it consumes. The more you are talked about the more you will wish to be talked about. This can take many different forms. There is the story of a Renaissance prince who was asked by a priest, as he lay dying, whether he had any regrets. 'One,' the prince replied. 'Once I had a visit from the Emperor and the Pope at the same time. I took them to the top of my tower to look at the view. I neglected the opportunity to throw them both off it which would have given me immortal fame.'

But the knowledge that one is being dis- cussed or written about is not always of great comfort. This is where Bacon's maxim begins to show its flaws. It is said, for exam- ple, that the criminal who is permitted to see an account of himself in the media becomes indignant if he feels that his case has been inadequately reported.

Politicians are the same. Peter Mandel- son, the Labour MP and media adviser to Mr Blair, last week complained about the `misleading drip, drip, drip of propaganda' which 'daily goes into the political blood- stream of the country'. Mr Mandelson was referring to 'Tory' tabloids like the Sun, and their headlines — viz, of a Labour win at the last election, 'Will the last person to leave Britain please turn off the lights?'

The closer we come to the next election the harder it will be for poor Mr Mandel- son to be satisfied. He may have a point about the tabloids, in the same way that the Government has one about 'bias' on the Today programme, but there is very little in a democracy that can be done about it.

This is an example of how Bacon's idea was better suited to a more despotic and Intrigue-ridden system. That is seldom taken into account, however, by friends who employ a variety of formulas urging one to 'make use' of the knowledge they have decided to impart, often at risk to their own interests. One of the most com- mon of these formulas begins with, 1 don't wish to upset you, but I really think you ought to know . . . ' This is invariably fol- lowed by some unpleasant and unsettling piece of information the value of which appears quite escapable.

Then there is the phrase which is all sweetness and spite, designed both to alarm and ingratiate. It goes thus: 'You will be glad to hear that I was defending you the other day.' Glad to hear? The most usual effect is acute paranoia. If one requires defending, there must be numerous assailants. How many people are attacking one and why? The subject becomes con- vinced that he is perpetually the victim of ingratitude, unkindness and treachery. The exact nature of the intelligence may be vague, but it is concluded with one of the most pernicious sentences in the English language: It's best to know who your friends are.'

But, as Bacon said, knowledge is power. For this reason, I am sure, I am often privi- leged to be 'empowered' by thoughtful well-wishers. It is curious, though, that most of the knowledge they give me is utterly useless, in nine cases out of ten con- cerning a situation about which one can do nothing. It is possible, of course, that one's friends imagine themselves special instru- ments of the Divine Will on some mission of truth. But long-term calculations that certain discomfort in the present is worth inflicting for the sake of some doubtful benefit in the future are always to be viewed with suspicion. The other day some- one said to me, It's important that you know this: many people hate you.' My advice to Mr Mandelson is that he stop reading the newspapers.

The nastiest man I ever knew was lachrymose. Almost anything would set him off: a sentimental book or a film. His whole body would be convulsed with the most ter- rible sobs and yells. But when his wife died he remained as inert and unmoved as an atheist before the doors of a cathedral.

I am in two minds about tears. I could not help but repress a shudder at the liquid response of politicians to the killings at Dunblane. All week MPs were said to be `close to tears'. The Prime Minister and the Labour leader, after visiting Dunblane, were, according to the newpapers, 'barely able to control their feelings'.

No one would wish to impugn their sin- cerity, least of all myself. But we could have done without such gusts of sensibility. Some of the best men have cried; Churchill, for instance, felt emotion close to the surface. But so have some of the worst. The cruellest of tyrants, Ivan the Terrible, could let rip like a burst viaduct. Hitler frequently cried; so did Henry VIII. Mussolini wept whenever he heard the fas- cist anthem, `Giovinezza'.

Copious weeping does not indicate pro- foundity. Lord Lundy from his earliest years was far too freely moved to tears. Was Lord Lundy a deep person? One thinks not. In the 18th century crying was nothing more than a rhetorical device. Gentlemen wept on taking their leave of an acquaintance. This prompted the cynical Lord Chesterfield to observe, `I find that the more a fellow weeps, the less he feels.' Charles Fox was prone to crying, with huge tears pouring down his plethoric cheeks. Madame du Deffand thought that he was one of the most superficial men she had ever met: 11 est dur, hardi, l'esprit prompt . . . it voit tout A vue d'oiseau.'

The best thing one can hope for in life is a serene spirit, not continual animation by frantic and turbulent sentiment. 'What is courage?' a young soldier once asked Alexandre Dumas. 'Courage,' Dumas replied, 'is the tender heart and the dry eye. The tearful person is the shallow person. I know. I am in tears all the time.'