In the space of a few days, one of the world’s greatest idols has toppled off his pedestal. Dust is still swirling around the shattered image of Atticus Finch, the noblest and best-loved of fictional characters, who in Harper Lee’s recently published novel Go Set A Watchman is revealed as holding ugly segregationist views. Despite the hype preceding the book, warning of what it contained, it comes as a shock to read the saintly figure at the centre of To Kill a Mockingbird spouting racist ideas more worthy of a red-neck than a cultured, honourable man who had once risked his life and that of his children defending an innocent black man against an accusation of rape.
Some have said they will boycott the book because they do not want their image of Atticus tarnished. For many, the Southern lawyer is synonymous with Gregory Peck, who brilliantly played his part in the film version, and for them it is inconceivable that Peck would have lent his name, even in film, to the attitudes of the older Finch. Thus the reading world, weaned on one of the finest and most politically uncompromising children’s books of the 20th century, is reeling.
To feel so hurt or offended by the actions or thoughts of an imaginary person might seem ridiculous, but the pain that Atticus’s fall from grace has provoked is genuine. Whether in fiction or real life, discovering that someone whom you have revered is less decent or remarkable than you thought they were is wounding. In the case of Atticus, he was a part of many readers’ childhood, a brick in the wall of principles, values and ethics they were building as they learned what makes an admirable person.
For most people, the first sense of betrayal comes with the discovery that their parents are not perfect. As Oscar Wilde wrote, “Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.” Even if the last bit is not necessarily true, one of the earliest steps in growing up is learning that someone you look up to is not always right, and that people, even those you love most, can be complex, made up of the good and not so good, or even the downright bad. Most relationships, be it between children and parents, partners and spouses, bosses and employees, go through a honeymoon. The true test of the bond comes when the idealised image is replaced with a portrait so honest it shows not just their best profile, but the wrinkles and rotten teeth as well. Those who can handle the fact that most humans are like a Christmas stocking, containing disappointments as well as treats, are less likely to feel short-changed or disillusioned when things go wrong.
The contempt and fury heaped on the likes of Lance Armstrong or Bill Clinton when their feet of clay were discovered was a measure of how highly they had been esteemed. One was a sporting cheat, the other lied to Congress about an indecent affair. Armstrong, the cancer survivor, had inspired millions with his mental and physical stamina; Clinton had seemed to represent the highest ideals of liberal democracy. For him to be revealed as too scared to speak honestly inflicted a blow to his reputation from which it has never entirely recovered. Armstrong, meanwhile, remains a pariah.
From earliest times we have needed to idolise something beyond ourselves, be it gods or prophets or political leaders. Putting aside those extreme cases of the utterly depraved, we all can relate to the sense of dismay and personal affront when a figurehead’s flaws become evident. Some of the disappointment and anger we feel is surely partly directed at ourselves, not merely for having been duped, but for putting our faith so firmly in them. But in a way, to believe someone is wholly good or wise or strong is an abnegation of the responsibility to think for ourselves. It also shows a lack of imagination. Rather than act like adults, we take the lazy route, preferring the juvenile simplicity of thinking people are either moral or unprincipled, invincible or weak. As one of Atticus Finch’s friends says of him in Mockingbird, “we’re paying the highest tribute we can pay a man. We trust him to do right. It’s that simple.”
With so much invested in them, it’s no wonder many public figures lie rather than risk disgrace. It would make society far less simplistic, and us more mature, if we could accept that our idols are impressive sometimes despite their shortcomings. Oddly, and most unsettlingly, when you read what Atticus really thinks about his black neighbours, it makes his behaviour in Mockingbird not less heroic, but more.
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