Biographies, as generally written, are not only misleading but

Abraham Lincoln, a man who knew both the heights of glory and the depths of sorrow, once observed with piercing honesty: “Biographies, as generally written, are not only misleading but false... In most instances, they commemorate a lie and cheat posterity out of the truth.” These words are heavy with wisdom, for they remind us that history, when polished and adorned for admiration, often ceases to be truth and becomes instead a carefully woven tale. In the telling of lives, we too often choose to honor reputation rather than reality, legend rather than humanity.

Lincoln spoke as one who despised falsehood. He understood that when we elevate men into marble statues, we rob the generations to come of the very lessons that their humanity could teach. For what can a spotless saint teach us but despair at our own weakness? But when the truth is told—when flaws are admitted alongside virtues—then a man’s life becomes a living torch, guiding those who stumble, showing them that greatness is not perfection, but perseverance. Thus Lincoln denounced biographies that “commemorate a lie,” for they turn men into idols and history into deception.

The annals of time are filled with such distortions. Consider the hagiographies of medieval kings, written not to reveal but to glorify. They omitted cruelty, hid corruption, and painted tyranny as virtue. Posterity, reading such accounts, was “cheated out of the truth,” for it was denied the wisdom that comes from understanding both the greatness and the failings of rulers. Even in modern times, leaders are often remembered in the bright colors of victory but not in the shadows of their mistakes. The cost is immense: future generations are left with myths, not lessons.

Yet there are moments when truth pierces through the veil of glorification. Recall the story of Ulysses S. Grant, Lincoln’s own general, whose memoirs stand as some of the most honest of any leader. Written as he was dying, Grant did not seek to polish his image but to tell his story plainly. He admitted his errors, his failures, and his weaknesses, even as he recounted his triumphs. In doing so, he offered not a saint, but a man—and in the man, posterity found a truth more enduring than any marble monument. This is what Lincoln yearned for: truth unvarnished, humanity unveiled.

The heart of Lincoln’s words is both lament and warning. He mourned that men prefer to remember heroes as flawless, for this robs history of its power to instruct. He warned us that the temptation to glorify rather than reveal is strong, and that in yielding to it, we betray both the dead and the living. For it is not lies but truth that builds wisdom, not perfection but struggle that builds courage. Truth alone has the power to teach, to heal, to guide.

The lesson, then, is clear: seek always the truth, not the comfortable story. When you read of great men and women, ask not only what they achieved, but also where they stumbled, how they endured, what price they paid. When you tell the story of another’s life—or even of your own—resist the urge to paint only in bright colors. For it is the shadows, too, that give shape and depth to the picture. To cheat posterity of truth is to rob it of strength; to preserve truth, however painful, is to gift the future with wisdom.

Practically, this means we must demand honesty in history, in journalism, in storytelling. We must value candor over praise, substance over spectacle. In our own lives, we must resist the temptation to create masks for ourselves, preferring instead to be known as we truly are. Let us write and speak not to be admired, but to be understood. For in truth lies the power to inspire—not through perfection, but through authenticity.

Thus Lincoln’s words stand as a beacon: biographies that lie build monuments that crumble; stories that tell the truth build wisdom that endures. Let us, then, honor not the myths of men, but their humanity. Let us seek in their truth the lessons for our own journey. And in so doing, we will not cheat posterity, but enrich it with the treasure of honest remembrance.