I recently enjoyed a play performed by the Nanaimo Theatre Group (NTG) entitled “Glorious,” written by Peter Quilter. It was a delightfully comedic performance portraying the life of Florence Foster Jenkins who imagined herself to be a talented singer.

The Nanaimo Bulletin described the play by referring to the press release:

“Jenkins could not carry a tune but was convinced she was a great soprano,” noted an NTG press release, adding that the singer’s career reached its pinnacle when she gave a “legendary” public performance at Carnegie Hall at the age of 76. 

“In this touching play … what begins as a joke becomes a lesson in how to live your dream. The play is ultimately about love in its many forms,” the release added.”

While I don’t disagree with the perception that the play is about love and “how to live your dream,” what I think the press release misses is the power of self-delusion. It was not only Florence but also those closest to her who were drawn into supporting and promoting her view that she was an unusually gifted singer. It is as though they began to hear what she heard and not the discordant sounds that accosted the ears of everyone else.

I also take issue with the perception that Jenkins’ performances began as a joke. I don’t think they did. Her singing may have been, and probably was, received as a joke, but Jenkins was more likely to have been the target of mocking than having been a provider of comedy.

All of this got me thinking about self-delusion and wondering about the extent to which I, and probably everyone, is similarly deluded to a greater or lesser extent. This came to the fore for me today when I was discussing the newsletter that I write for a local club with one of its members. I thought I was respecting the style and tone provided by previous editors when I followed their example in writing the newsletter’s components. The person I spoke with, however, saw me as lacking confidence and authority by not changing the elements that were overly wordy. Now, I think she was probably right, but my self-delusion was that my deference to my predecessors was somehow the noble path.

We can all think of a political leader or two who seem to be victims of their own self-delusions, and some of them fire aides and allies of various kinds who try to draw attention to the misperceptions. When we are convinced of the rightness of our views, it hurts to be confronted with alternative impressions, but if we have the necessary power we can summarily dismiss the source of the hurt.

Florence Foster Jenkins was never brought to realize her shortcomings because she died shortly after her triumphant Carnegie Hall concert. I am struck by the satisfaction I feel in knowing she died in ignorance of her own bad singing, but I also applaud the actions of those who loved her and kept her from that knowledge throughout her life.

You may think it contradictory, then, when I say that I wish more people would tell our politicians when they are wrong, or are deluded, or are misinformed. I cannot applaud the people who are close to power but who fail to correct the officeholders when they make unethical choices. In fact, I consider those scoundrels just as accountable for all the bad decisions that the politicians make as the lawmakers themselves.

It seems to me to be forgivable when you tell someone you care about that that they look lovely, or that they are too kind, or that they are a great singer even when they are not. Telling a politician they are wise when they are clearly malevolent is not only unforgivable, it is traitorous.