So nice and yet so Nazi

We are none of us, thank heaven, one-dimensional creatures easily and succinctly defined by a single characteristic. It is an obvious truth, yet was almost entirely ignored in the reporting of Diana Mosley’s death in Paris last summer, announced with the same clamour as had enveloped her for many of the last 70 years of her life. She was often vilified with a glee and enjoyment which carefully avoided any thought and latched on to the remorseless repetition of two simple facts, that she had been Hitler’s friend and Mosley’s wife. Ergo, she had to be detestable. To their great shame, even some serious historians were prepared to join in the ranting lest their political sense might appear to wobble.

This biography is more responsible. It celebrates the life of a remarkable woman without concealing the central huge misrouting which fate mapped out for her. I only wish it gave more space to her literary skills, for she was the most elegant writer in a family bursting with creative energy; her sister Nancy Mitford was funnier, her sister Jessica Mitford more robust, her sister Debo Devonshire more accessible, but Diana was the supreme exemplar of style.