Featuring obits
A prevalent topic throughout our work the last several weeks has regarded the “featured” obit — a story of life, not death. As has been previously highlighted on this blog, The Economist applies this theme in its obituary writing, choosing to focus on the anecdotes, accomplishments and biographical details of great lives lived, as opposed to the aspects of those figures’ demise. Our research and conclusions have led us to believe that this approach is sound, and we believe it wise for publications to incorporate it.
Bear with me for a moment and check out the beginning portion of a potential feature on former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, revolutionary for his use of policy analysis in his post and controversial for his role in the Vietnam War:
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“At 5:15 one afternoon last week,” TIME wrote on Nov 12, 1965, “Norman Morrison, 31, his clothing doused in kerosene and his youngest child, 18-month-old Emily, cradled in his arms, stood outside the river entrance to the Pentagon and burned himself to death.”
He was a war protester, this Morrison. This was the unraveling of the public debate, from marching to self-immolation. This was the polarization that, no matter his intention, Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defense under Presidents Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, contributed to an increasingly fractured public during America’s most divisive war, clouding a unique résumé that made him one of the most fascinating men to hold the post.
McNamara’s managerial and analytical brilliance was indisputable. As the eventual star of the “Whiz Kids”, a group of post-World War II ex-military that ascended Ford Motor Company’s executive ladder and righted the ship, he displayed a first-class aptitude for organizational capability, becoming the corporation’s president in 1960. Although the Kennedy administration soon targeted him to head the Department of the Treasury, McNamara, despite his lack of military command, was recommended by Truman’s Secretary of Defense, Robert A. Lovett, for the same post.
“Mr. President, it’s absurd. I’m not qualified,” McNamara humbly told Kennedy. ”Look, Bob,” the president replied, “I don’t think there’s any school for Presidents either.”
McNamara was a rare figure in the administration—one of the few men who had John Kennedy’s ear in matters of national security, initially evidenced by his involvement in the backroom dealings of the Cuban Missile Crisis. As such, his role as a policymaker was legitimized, leading him to cut waste, carve out a more efficient department and establish new guidelines for nuclear warfare. In fact, it was McNamara who first clarified the once prevalent concept of “mutual assured destruction” (MAD).
However, his name would forever be etched in controversy for his authority in the planning and execution of the Vietnam War, colloquially known by many as “McNamara’s War”—blame that would trouble him in the years following his service.
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What about it? Are we on point in assessing that this is the type of story the obituary reader, whether intense or more fleeting in her interests, wants to read?