Should biographers aim to give us a warts and all account of their subjects’ private lives, or can there be justification for leaving some secrets in the past? Is there a need, as some suggest, during Britten’s centenary to confront the ambiguities over the composer’s relationship with children when we celebrate work such as Peter Grimes? Does the endless speculation over the identity of Shakespeare, or the turbulent relationship of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, suggest that it will always be impossible to separate the artist from the art? Does continuing to admire the work of Wagner or Eric Gill risk condoning the often reprehensible views and acts of the creator? Similarly, even when the artist’s lives may be inspiring or admirable, can this emphasis risk undermining or overshadowing their achievements? Is biography the only way in which we can place art within its specific context?