Obituaries: A dying Art. Who writes them and why do they matter?
“To look at the paper is to raise a seashell to one’s ear and to be overwhelmed by the roar of humanity,” the philosopher Alain de Botton once said. Clearly Mr de Botton didn’t make it to the obituary pages very often.
Every day newspapers devote a few pages to covering the lives of interesting and eccentric characters. They are a testament not to the roar of humanity, but the satisfied purr of a life well-lived.
Last month, Amanda Fielding, the “crackpot countess” who studied the benefits of LSD, appeared in The Times alongside Robert Shapiro, a Monsanto chief executive who invented the sweetener for Diet Coke. The only connection between them was a love of synthetic substances. The Telegraph made space for Luigi Alva, a Peruvian oil executive-turned-opera singer, as well as Clive Birch, the man credited with reinvigorating British local history.
In those four lives there’s an immense sweep of human experience, condensed into a handful of pithy anecdotes and biting one-liners. Ironically, it is often the obituaries section which is the most life-affirming part of a newspaper. This was not always the case: for much of the 20th century, obituaries were a dead zone in British newspapers, so to speak.
The scene was dominated by The Times, whose obituary pages featured a succession of aristocrats, generals, bishops and politicians. The stories were often perfunctory, simply listing the deceased’s honours and achievements. “For much of the century they were basically extended society notices,” says Dennis Duncan, an associate professor of English at UCL.
It all started to change in the 1980s, when Hugh Massingberd at The Telegraph and James Fergusson at The Independent began experimenting with new kinds of obituaries. They broadened the cast of characters who might appear in a typical obituaries page, seeking to make the stories more interesting. From this starting point, however, they then took different approaches. The Independent sought to “open up and demystify the obituary”, according to Fergusson, while The Telegraph set out to “subvert the traditional obituary from within”.
Under Fergusson’s editorship, obituaries in The Independent would appear with bylines. He also got subject matter experts – or “people who knew what they were talking about” – to write pieces, a move that can be unnerving for journalists. The Telegraph’s obituaries remained unsigned, but Massingberd turned them into brief character sketches, full of revealing anecdotes and thinly-veiled euphemisms.
As Fergusson wrote: “Once upon a time the activities of a deplorable peer would have been so downplayed by The Times that only a professional code-breaker with the wind behind him could have spotted them; now The Telegraph treated them so rumbustiously that the obituary could seem like an elaborate practical joke”.
The Earl of Carnarvon, for example, was described as a “relentless raconteur and most uncompromisingly direct ladies’ man”. And while the painter Adrian Daintrey may often have looked “faintly bemused and bewildered”, we are told “his interest in the fairer sex, wine and cigars remained undiminished to the end”.
‘Euphemism is still very much in vogue’
Euphemism is still very much in vogue among obituary writers. “If I say ‘generous with his affections’, it could mean he was a top shagger,” says freelance obituary writer Tim Bullamore. “‘Never knowingly left his own county’ could mean they were enormously dull. Someone who was ‘not burdened with self-doubt’ might be extremely arrogant…” The list goes on. However, the phrase ‘he never married’ – once used as code for gay – has largely been dropped.
Being in some way ‘interesting’ is now the only necessary qualification for someone to deserve an obituary. In fact, while being dead is strongly encouraged, it is not always required. In 1999, Dave Swarbrick, a member of the folk band Fairpoint Convention, appeared in The Telegraph’s obituary pages. It soon transpired that reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated.
Swarbrick saw the piece as he recovered from emphysema in a hospital bed in Coventry. “He read the obituary and didn’t quarrel with any of the spellings or the facts, apart from the obvious one,” his wife said. Swarbrick lived for another 17 years, and would sometimes sell signed copies of his obituary at his gigs.
Andrew Brown, The Telegraph’s current obituaries editor, said the team was doubly cautious to prevent another premature obituary. “We always try to get more than one person confirming the death. It is always a bit spooky to just have one person,” he said.
But sometimes it is not possible to find an extra source. Brown said he was writing an obituary for a famous author one quiet Sunday, with the only confirmation of death coming from the author’s executor.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Brown asked sheepishly. “Well, I’m standing in his house looking at his coffin, so I’m fairly sure,” came the reply.
Although it is rare for an obituary to be published before someone’s death, major newspapers have thousands of obits stored away, should the moment arise. These storehouses are known as ‘the morgue’. Important politicians, 27-year old musicians and ageing celebrities are all likely to have obits ready for action. Inevitably, sometimes they have to be changed to reflect new information. ”I’ve had to rewrite Zelensky’s about three times,” says Bullamore.
But the storehouses are a vital hedge against the need for speed in a digital age. Like all forms of journalism, getting a story up fast is crucial. A big obituary can attract a lot of attention.
If an obituary is prewritten, there is also scope for the subject to contribute to it. Bullamore said he occasionally travels around the country for interviews specifically with an obituary in mind. These face-to-face meetings can add crucial details to a piece, bringing the character to life. Bullamore describes how he went to interview Sir Colin Davis, a famous composer, for his obituary. “He sat there doing his knitting and smoking his pipe… All through the recording you could just hear the clink of his needles. And when I stood up, I saw he had a full-length skeleton behind him. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Just a reminder’, he replied.”
Obituaries: Grieving widows tell the unvarnished truth
While prewritten obituaries are stored in the morgue, post-mortem obits are known as ‘live copy’. Obviously it is difficult for the subject themselves to contribute to these pieces, so writers often seek out their families.
Although this sounds like it might be awkward, Brown said that in his experience, the family often enjoyed telling stories about their loved ones in the prime of life. They can also be indiscreet: “Grieving widows tell you the unvarnished truth,” Bullamore says.
One thing that does not get much space in British obituaries is the cause of death. Usually, if it appears at all, it gets at most a line. The Telegraph briefly experimented with including more details, but this was abandoned after a jazz musician died from an exploding penile implant. Not a good breakfast read.
Most obituary writers insist that it is, for the most part, not a morbid profession. Obituaries, Fergusson says, are “celebrations for the most part, of small lives, lives well lived, the lives not of the great… but of people in most ways, except maybe one, much like us”.
