I have never read any of the many books published on Princess Diana and Mother Teresa, and it’s unlikely I ever will. For different reasons they have always bored me. Yes, of course, I have peered at their pictures in newspapers and magazines. But that is largely out of casual curiosity and prurience. In the case of Diana the effort has always been to discover the source of her sexual appeal for millions around the world, which sadly, I confess, continues to elude me. As for the Mother, the effort has always been to find the face behind the perennially-lined, perennially-benign face, the face she must have worn before she became an icon, wherein there could be clues to why she became Mother Teresa.Sadly again, I confess, there have been no pictures that have afforded such insights.
It is her brutal self-denial, her continual goodness—Chris Hitchens notwithstanding—that makes her, for me, a little numbing. It is easy to revere saints, difficult to engage with them. Giving succour to the needy is noble, but doing it to the exclusion of all else can eventually prove a little uninteresting. A bit one-dimensional. Everyone admires Mother Teresa inordinately, but I’d be curious to know how many people have actually read any of the books on her.
