Discretion is back in fashion after our mania for oversharing
As a child, one of my favourite stories was the Greek myth of King Midas, who was given the thankless task of judging a musical contest between Apollo and Pan. He chose Pan, and was condemned by the irked runner-up to grow a pair of ass’s ears, which he revealed to no one but his barber, who was sworn to secrecy. Of course the poor man couldn’t bear not to tell what he knew, so he dug a hole and whispered the awful confidence into it. Whereupon it was broadcast far and wide by the reeds that grew on the spot – those archaic equivalents of Facebook and Twitter.
If there were a foundation myth for the 21st century, this would surely be it, for ours is a time when no indiscretion can expect to remain hidden forever. Openness, transparency, a strict regard for truth are qualities invoked like incantations by people and organisations seeking public approval. When a gap appears between the virtuous manifesto and the less pristine reality, its existence is broadcast with subversive glee.
If the effects of the new openness have been beneficial on the whole, they have had the peculiar side effect of making that old-fashioned virtue, discretion, seem slightly disreputable – as though reticence implied something to hide. Still, every orthodoxy breeds its own resistance, and recently there have been signs of a modest insurgence against the tyranny of oversharing.
Last week the broadcaster Jonathan Dimbleby rejected the idea of writing an autobiography: “Memoirs are fine if you are happy to tell lies,” he remarked. And yesterday The Telegraph reported that Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, who died earlier this month, had placed an embargo on her three-decade correspondence with the poet John Betjeman until 2034 – 50 years after his death. Lady Elizabeth was described by Betjeman’s daughter, Candida Lycett Green, as the late Poet Laureate’s “beloved other wife” (he was married to the travel writer, Penelope Chetwode). There is altruism in her embargo – by 2034 everyone directly connected with the trio will be dead (so, too, to their chagrin, will be the current generation of would-be biographers). But it is also a reminder that a private life – unless one elects to make it otherwise – is exactly that.
I often wish that my dear grandmother were still alive – and never more so than on reading about the latest innovation by Gail’s artisan bakery. As part of its commitment to reducing food waste, the chain is introducing a sourdough product made partly from leftover bread. Gail’s chief executive, Tom Molnar, says that Waste Bread (as it will be called) is “a great example of our expertise and passion”. And so it should be, at £4.20 a loaf.
Decades ago, my grandmother’s commitment to minimising food waste took the form of bread pudding – a rich, damp, sugar-encrusted confection that was a highlight of my childhood teatimes. Like Molière’s bourgeois gentilhomme, amazed to discover that he had been speaking prose all his life, I think Ethel would have been startled to find herself a champion of sustainability. I’m sure Waste Bread is splendid stuff, but for expertise, passion, thrift and sheer Proustian resonance, I’d take Ethel’s bread pudding, every time.