Â Yeats said “IÂ haveÂ oftenÂ hadÂ the fancy that there isÂ someÂ oneÂ mythÂ forÂ every man, which,Â ifÂ we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.”Â Truman forever afterwards seemed obsessed with wealthy people, the really, truly rich, and he always seems to betray them. He integrated himself into their lives, and he became their closest confidante – but then, he published all their stories without concern for ostracizing himself in the process.
He did this, even, seemingly, with the people he loved. He almost certainly did love Babe Paley – he died whispering her name – but he published all her most intimate and humiliating secrets.
I think probably Truman’s motivation for doing all of that were unclear, even to himself. But I do think that no matter how much he loved it, he might have been gripped by certain impulse to humble the world that so enthralled his mother that it brought about her demise. And he did, even if it meant the he ended life utterly alone.
But there is one nice moment, in all of that, or a moment I always think is nice.