When you think about it, most of what we know comes at a remove — many removes often.

Most of what we know in science comes not from going through the experiments ourselves and pondering the results, but from the successive compressions, reevaluations, analyses and reductions of scientists and textbooks.

Most of what we know of history comes not from living it, not even from reading first hand sources, but from reading secondary, tertiary, n-ary literature based on more and more removed sources.

Most of what we know of our philosophies and religions comes not from the direct experiences of the Canon in their original language, but of commentaries, translations, interpretations and adaptations.^[1]

And at each such step, the goals, frames, and inclinations of the authors influence what gets dropped, what gets enhanced, what gets transformed.

One of the best ways I know of reminding oneself of that, beyond reading intellectual histories, lies in following a reference or a story back from where it was plucked.

For example, I’m currently reading B. H. Liddell Hart’s biography of William Tecumseh Sherman, the famous Civil War general.

What brought me to this book was not fascination with the Civil War or military history, but instead a passage from Ryan Holiday’s Ego is The Enemy, which I found myself returning to for nuggets of wisdom able to curb my own ego.

On several occasions, Sherman freely strategized with the president, but at the end of his trip, he made one strange request; he’d accept his new promotion only with the assurance that he’d not have to assume superior command. Would Lincoln give him his word on that? With every other general asking for as much rank and power as possible, Lincoln happily agreed.

At this point in time, Sherman felt more comfortable as a number two. He felt he had an honest appreciation for his own abilities and that this role best suited him. Imagine that—an ambitious person turning down a chance to advance in responsibilities because he actually wanted to be ready for them. Is that really so crazy?

(Ryan Holiday, Ego is The Enemy, 2017, p.17-18)

That snippet, and other throughout the book, certainly whetted my appetite to learn more about Sherman. And Holiday included B. H. Liddell Hart’s biography both in the selected bibliography at the end, and in his master reading list on his website:

Sherman was someone I knew little about before I read this book, but by the end of it found myself referencing and thinking of him constantly. It is equal parts due to the greatness of the man himself and to Hart’s vivid and engrossing portrait.

(Ryan Holiday, Books To Base Your Life on (The Reading List), 2018)

So I got Sherman: Soldier, Realist, American, and started reading, looking for more meat about this story and others of the same time.

Yet when I reached the obvious source for the Holiday passage above, I noticed surprising differences:

For, while he was striving to pull his men out of the mire, he himself was sunk in a slough of despond, less visible but more clinging. […] Sherman’s depression had in it neither resignation nor dejection, but was the expression of deep-seated disgust. Disgust at the stupidity of men, including himself, to rise to the level of their opportunities and emergencies. He was disgusted at the way the war was being handled, and equally at the way he had handled his own life. Starting life with a dynamic confidence in himself, he had suffered repeated set-backs and gradually, instead of blaming them on fate, he had begun to blame them on himself. Yet conscious that he was being unfair to himself.

Thus the public outcome of Bull Run and his personal ignorance of the new drill-books induced a fresh fit of disgust which made him sensitive to his own limitations. Even after his promotion, at his next interview with Lincoln he declared emphatically that he wished “to serve in a subordinate capacity, and in no event to be left in a superior command.” The request appealed afresh to Lincoln’s sense of humour and drew from him the comment that his chief trouble was to find places for the too many generals who wanted to be at the head.

(B. H. Liddell Hart, Sherman: Soldier, Realist, American, 1960, p.93)

Clearly, Holiday’s treatment differs from Liddell Hart’s.

In Holiday’s passage, Sherman’s request for not being further promoted only stems from his own estimation of his worth, and his belief that it does not yet warrant superior command.

Whereas Liddell Hart instead frames the utterance in the context of Sherman’s depression; at this point in his life, Sherman had endured many failures and defeats (the most recent just days before), despite having generally been the reasonable realist that took the sensible course.

Another minor difference lies in the characterization of Lincoln’s response: in Holiday it is direct and straightforward, in Liddell Hart it betrays Lincoln's sense of humour.

If Holiday was just blatantly manipulating history to make a point, I would be less curious. But I don’t think this is what is happening here. I’ve read most of his books, followed his adventures for a while, and as far as I can see he is a genuine thoughtful writer who cares about getting things right, and actually read in details the books he leverage in his own work.

Which makes this even more meaningful: even a well-meaning and serious thinker naturally shifts history, ever so slightly, as they retell it.

Why did Holiday change these elements?

My guess is that it comes from a difference in goals between Holiday and Liddell Hart.

The latter is writing a biography of Sherman, and so cares a lot about making sense of the man and revealing his subtleties. Whereas Holiday is writing a book about Ego; what resonated with him in reading about Sherman was his strategic genius and his character.

Similarly, these differing goals impact the amount of space allocated to the incident: it takes a few lines in Ego is The Enemy, but in Sherman it is a full page that builds on many previous incidents that have been recounted (at this point in the biography, we have seen Sherman failing over and over again, and almost give up and go to live in London).

These differences means that Holiday had to compress the story; first to fit into his notecard system, then to fit within the chapter where he used the story.

This is why both Sherman and Lincoln are simplified, almost purified: Sherman distilled to his realism and check on his ego, and Lincoln into the wise president harassed by incompetent and egotistic military officers.^[2]

I even think Holiday did a good job here. Despite simplifying and taking some liberties with the context, he still drives home a point that appears repeatedly in Liddell Hart, and which played a role in the original incident.

Other men, many others, have shared Sherman’s reluctance to serve in a post inferior to their self-estimated capacity. Where Sherman was exceptional was in the exactness of his estimate. And still more in his equal reluctance to occupy any post which in his judgment was higher than his capacity at any period warranted.

(B. H. Liddell Hart, Sherman: Soldier, Realist, American, 1960, p.71)

The War Department was quicker this time to make use of his offer, and only hesitated whether to make him a Major-General of volunteers, or Colonel of one of the new Regular regiments of infantry. He was also considered for the post of Quartermaster-General of the Army to replace Joseph E. Johnston, his future opponent on the way to Atlanta, who had thrown in his lot with the Confederacy.

On May 14 Sherman heard from his brother of these possibilities, in a message telling him to go at once to Washington. Before starting, he penned a reply which fits perfectly into his character as here diagnosed, but fits not at all into an egoistical delineation. “You all overrate my powers and abilities and may place me in a position above my merits, a worse step than below. Really I do not conceive myself qualified for Quartermaster-General or Major-General. To attain either station I would prefer a schooling with large masses of troops in the field, one which I lost in the Mexican War by going to California. The only possible reason that would induce me to accept my position would be to prevent its falling into incompetent hands. The magnitude of interest at issue now, will admit of no experiments....”

(B. H. Liddell Hart, Sherman: Soldier, Realist, American, 1960, p.76)

Shiloh had been a spiritual tonic to Sherman by proving to him, the severest judge, his own capacity to rise to an emergency. The effect is shown by a remark, in a letter to his father-in-law, which strikes an entirely new note—“I am not in search of glory or fame, for I know I can take what position I choose among my peers.” April 6 had been the way and day of revelation, to himself. Thus he was now, as he says, “in high feather.” Yet heightened confidence instead of taking the common form of conceit set him free to be more, rather than less, considerate of others, having suffered himself.

(B. H. Liddell Hart, Sherman: Soldier, Realist, American, 1960, p.134)

These extracts and many others from Liddell Hart show that the core point made by Holiday is there in the material; what the latter did was not so much invent a different character as combine these insights into Sherman’s egolessness, fusing them into a neater version of the story that best fitted the general point.

As for Lincoln, if Holiday implies much more wisdom than was really displayed by Lincoln at this time of the war (at least according to Liddell Hart), it is hardly a massive issue here: Lincoln is a side character in this anecdote, used to emphasize the contrasting egotism of the other generals and commanders of the Union.

Yet once again, this is still a distortion, one that I wouldn’t have known had I not read the original sources.

And it gets even worse: for why would I expect the “original” story Liddell Hart’s portrayal to not also suffer from similar problems? Especially given that there are more reasons to doubt Liddell Hart’s use of history.^[3]

I could start reading Liddell Hart’s sources, but I most likely won’t. Also, for my own interests, it does not matter that much: I’m more searching for moral inspiration than for the exact accurate story of Sherman’s life.

Still, there are cases where such distortions, even well-intentioned, can be more problematic. The other example which comes to mind is another one from Ego is The Enemy, Holiday’s treatment of John Boyd.

One of the most influential strategists and practitioners in modern warfare is someone most people have never heard of. His name was John Boyd. He was a truly great fighter pilot, but an even better teacher and thinker. After flying in Korea, he became the lead instructor at the elite Fighter Weapons School at Nellis Air Force Base. He was known as “Forty-Second Boyd”— meaning that he could defeat any opponent, from any position, in less than forty seconds. A few years later he was quietly summoned to the Pentagon, where his real work began.

[…]

On the other hand, his theories transformed maneuver warfare in almost every branch of the armed forces, not just in his own lifetime but even more so after. The F-15 and F-16 fighter jets, which reinvented modern military aircraft, were his pet projects. His primary influence was as an adviser; through legendary briefings he taught and instructed nearly every major military thinker in a generation. His input on the war plans for Operation Desert Shield came in a series of direct meetings with the secretary of defense, not through public or official policy input. His primary means of effecting change was through the collection of pupils he mentored, protected, taught, and inspired.

There are no military bases named after him. No battleships. He retired assuming that he’d be forgotten, and without much more than a small apartment and a pension to his name. He almost certainly had more enemies than friends. This unusual path—What if it were deliberate? What if it made him more influential? How crazy would that be?

In fact, Boyd was simply living the exact lesson he tried to teach each promising young acolyte who came under his wing, who he sensed had the potential to be something—to be something different. The rising stars he taught probably have a lot in common with us.

The speech Boyd gave to a protégé in 1973 makes this clear. Sensing what he knew to be a critical inflection point in the life of the young officer, Boyd called him in for a meeting. Like many high achievers, the soldier was insecure and impressionable. He wanted to be promoted, and he wanted to do well. He was a leaf that could be blown in any direction and Boyd knew it. So he heard a speech that day that Boyd would give again and again, until it became a tradition and a rite of passage for a generation of transformative military leaders.

“Tiger, one day you will come to a fork in the road,” Boyd said to him. “And you’re going to have to make a decision about which direction you want to go.” Using his hands to illustrate, Boyd marked off these two directions. “If you go that way you can be somebody. You will have to make compromises and you will have to turn your back on your friends. But you will be a member of the club and you will get promoted and you will get good assignments.” Then Boyd paused, to make the alternative clear. “Or,” he said, “you can go that way and you can do something—something for your country and for your Air Force and for yourself. If you decide you want to do something, you may not get promoted and you may not get the good assignments and you certainly will not be a favorite of your superiors. But you won’t have to compromise yourself. You will be true to your friends and to yourself. And your work might make a difference. To be somebody or to do something. In life there is often a roll call. That’s when you will have to make a decision.” And then Boyd concluded with words that would guide that young man and many of his peers for the rest of their lives. “To be or to do? Which way will you go?”

[…]

Boyd undeniably changed and improved his field in a way that almost no other theorist has since Sun Tzu or von Clausewitz. He was known as Genghis John for the way he never let obstacles or opponents stop him from what he needed to do. His choices were not without their costs. He was also known as the ghetto colonel because of his frugal lifestyle. He died with a drawerful of thousands of dollars in uncashed expense checks from private contractors, which he equated with bribes. That he never advanced above colonel was not his doing; he was repeatedly held back for promotions. He was forgotten by history as a punishment for the work he did.

(Ryan Holiday, Ego is The Enemy, 2017, p.29-31,34)

All in all, Holiday presents Boyd as a paragon at egolessness who did everything for his country and got punished for refusing to lick ass.

Yet this is not the full vision that emerges from reading the main biography of Boyd (which is also in the selected bibliography of Ego), Robert Coram’s Boyd:

By 1965 Boyd had been in the Air Force fourteen years. He was not yet up for promotion to lieutenant colonel. But each year the Air Force selects a few promising officers from each rank and promotes them “below the zone”—that is, before they have the time in grade. It is the best way the Air Force has to acknowledge talented young officers and to show that they have a promising future. Boyd looked back at his accomplishments at Nellis, researching and writing the “Aerial Attack Study,” gaining an engineering degree, and the impact his E-M Theory was having throughout the Air Force, and he knew that if ever a man deserved early promotion, he was that man. The Air Force owed him a debt of recognition and the best way to recognize an officer is to promote him. He was confident that he soon would be wearing the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel.But Boyd’s name was not on the early-promotion list. That, by itself, disappointed and angered Boyd. But what sent him over the edge was the list of men who were promoted. He read down the list in disbelief. Many of those promoted were “horse holders,” aides to generals. Others were nonentities whose contributions, if any, were unknown to Boyd. There was not one person on the list who had made the contributions to the Air Force and to national defense that he had made.

Boyd was deeply affected. This was a pivotal event in his career, as well as a personal epiphany. Often, when a man is young and idealistic, he believes that if he works hard and does the right thing, success will follow. This was what Boyd’s mother and childhood mentors had told him. But hard work and success do not always go together in the military, where success is defined by rank, and reaching higher rank requires conforming to the military’s value system. Those who do not conform will one day realize that the path of doing the right thing has diverged from the path of success, and then they must decide which path they will follow through life. Almost certainly, he realized that if he was not promoted early to lieutenant colonel after all that he had done, he would never achieve high rank. And in light of a speech he was to give in coming years to young officers, his famous “To Be or to Do” speech, he likely realized that while he might do big things, he would never be at the top of the Air Force hierarchy.

It was clear to Boyd’s friends what had happened. Those whom Boyd had belittled and denigrated had sent out the word, and the word had percolated among various coalitions until it reached the promotion board: sure, Boyd has done some good things for the Air Force, but he is unprofessional, lacks basic military courtesies, and is unfit for rapid promotion. These people had lost battles with Boyd, but they won the war. They affected his career and his life in the most hurtful way possible.

(Robert Coram, Boyd: The Fighter Pilot Who Changed the Art of War, 2002, p.182-183)

Coram is generally impressed with Boyd’s brilliance, and sympathetic with his subject, but he also noticed and repeatedly pointed out that Boyd’s treatment by the Air Force was not only because he refused to lick ass and compromise himself. Boyd liked to win fights and debates. He liked bravado and rubbing it in when he succeeded. It’s not just that he refused to compromise, it’s that he often went out of his way to humiliate people who fought against him, in the process turning them into enemies.

Then there was the day Boyd and Christie were in the coffee shop at Eglin, talking and laughing with the easy confidence of two men sure of their future, when in walked the civilian in charge of the computer shop. Boyd’s laughter ended and his face became hard and angry. He stuck his cigar in his mouth, stood up, and stalked toward the civilian. Christie sensed the danger, but it was too late to stop Boyd. Boyd took the cigar out of his mouth and said, “Guess you heard I briefed Sweeney.”

“Yes, I did,” said the civilian.

“And Schriever, and the secretary of the Air Force, and the president’s Scientific Advisory Board, and Dr. Johnny Foster?” Boyd’s voice rose with each addition to the list. The civilian nodded. Now people in the coffee shop were looking up and listening.

Boyd tapped the civilian in the chest. Hard. “You didn’t think my work was important enough for your goddamn computer and now I got four-stars calling me for briefings.” Tap. “Everybody in the Air Force has heard of energy-maneuverability.” Tap. Tap. “You.” Tap. “Don’t.” Tap. “Know.” Tap. “Shit.” Tap.

The civilian smiled tightly and tried to step around Boyd.

Boyd pushed his cigar against the civilian’s tie. A round hole appeared and smoke blossomed. The crowd in the cafeteria stared in shocked silence. The civilian slapped at his smoldering tie, gave Boyd a venomous look, and flounced out of the coffee shop. Boyd was on his six and firing steadily. “You’re a loser. A fucking loser. Go on, get out of here. Run.” His raucous laughter followed the man. As the civilian strode through the front door, Boyd stopped and shouted in a voice heard throughout the building, “You’re a fucking loser!”

Boyd watched the civilian walking across the parking lot. Twice the civilian looked over his shoulder as if afraid Boyd was still in pursuit. Boyd smiled and puffed on his cigar.

He had hosed another one.

Boyd did not see the dangers inherent in deliberately seeking conflict with others. In his mind he had been wronged by the civilian. The fact that he had briefed top people in the Air Force and in government proved he had been right and the civilian wrong. But to be right was not enough. He had to have a redress of grievances and he had to publicly embarrass the person who wronged him. He had to be the last man standing. “People did things to me when we were young,” he once told Mary. “They did it because we were poor. But they’re not going to do it now.”

But when Boyd hosed the civilian, he created another enemy. A powerful enemy. And payback time was rapidly approaching. The Air Force is a collection of coalitions, and by late 1965 there were strong anti-Boyd coalitions at Eglin, at Wright-Pat, and in scattered pockets around the Air Force.

(Robert Coram, Boyd: The Fighter Pilot Who Changed the Art of War, 2002, p.179-180)

This simplification strikes me as far more problematic than the Sherman one because it removes a dimension essential to the theme of Ego is The Enemy — for what pushed Boyd to search for retribution and final vindication, if not ego?

Going further, what Holiday is pushing here is the story that Boyd was projecting about the choice that needed to be done. And there is an element of truth to that story: doing what is right often leads to issues and conflicts. But by papering over the responsibilities of Boyd in the festering of these conflicts, Holiday hardens the tension between purity and compromise into something that doesn’t fit reality anymore.

And from the perspective of the reader of Ego is The Enemy, there is no cheap way to distinguish between the fine case of Sherman’s treatment and the problematic case of Boyd’s treatment.

I don’t have a final method for addressing this.

Maybe just an obvious thought: if some idea, concept, story particularly resonates with you, why not peel back the remoteness and go closer to the original source?

1. ^{^}

   Religion-wise, this feels slightly less true of say Islam and Judaism, where most practitioners can actually read the original language of the sacred text — but even there so much of the current understanding and living of the religion is filtered through commentaries, analyses, and other supplementary and derivative material, such the Hadiths and the Talmud.

2. ^{^}

   I also expect that Ryan Holiday’s talent for marketing (that is, for memetics) played a role here. He has an ear for making anectodes and observations pithy, and he used it here.

3. ^{^}

   I have not investigated this in detail, and don’t intend to, but scholars have raised claims about his alleged manipulation of history for his own benefit, notably in establishing the Rommel myth.