True confessions

The confessions of Sir Vidia Naipaul that his wayward behaviour led to the death of his first wife seem to match the mood of the moment — reconciliation, admission of guilt, redemption, resurrection and so on. It might also be said, by the less high-minded, that they also serve as excellent publicity for his biography, though of course Naipaul will not directly benefit from the sale of the book.

Yet there is nothing like a bit of extra spice to add that extra fillip to sales of books and this will confirm the man’s reputation as a good writer, but a misanthrope as a person. The American writer Paul Theroux had said much the same thing in his book on Naipaul, whose acolyte he once was, but everyone had said it was a case of a friendship gone bitter. Now we know that the Trinidad-born writer is as cussed as he is made out to be and is perhaps going through some guilt pangs.

The idea of guilt and forgiveness is abidingly human and full of interesting nuances. This need for forgiveness is encouraged and bolstered by most traditional organised religions, which also help with penances and punishments. Since the late 20th century we have also institutionalised public admissions of guilt and public forgiveness — television has therefore substituted God with public sentiment.

However, it has to be said that there is nothing to suggest that Naipaul is looking for forgiveness. He is certainly candid about how his behaviour tormented his first wife and seems certain that it was that which killed her. Most of Naipaul’s transgressions against his wife appear to have been about infidelity — a mistress, visits to brothels which his wife found out from a magazine interview and so on. Sir Vidia in any case is only following what has long been known about humans and marriage — that fidelity is something of a chimera, a desire that the human race possesses, but that is rarely fulfilled. Recent research shows that all animals are unfaithful to their mates and several animals also pay — in kind or in favours — for sexual pleasure. This is not unique to human beings.
 
In which case, the great writer is only behaving like the rest of the animals, which is not a very elevating thought. For his detractors, it is one more stick to beat him with; for his admirers, this is a perfect example of how greatness is disconnected to good behaviour. In his defence, Naipaul could claim that all great thinkers and writers from William Shakespeare to Bertrand Russell were known for their peccadilloes and he, in his own eyes, at least, is the greatest of them all.