Leadership

Book Club: Rebecca

I picked up Rebecca with some hesitation. The cover’s feminine scrawl screams ROMANCE a little too loudly, and some critics have argued that the book deserves the label. For years, Rebecca was catalogued as a “romantic thriller” and treated with the according literary respect. However, it eventually morphed into a cult classic and now can defensibly claim feminist status.

The book’s evolving reception and it’s transcendence of categorization is more than a publication history. Its trajectory parallels that of its titular character, Rebecca, who is simultaneously larger than life and wholly obscure. Is she to be admired? Is she a dangerous influence, in death as in life? Or something else entirely? This ambiguity offers important lessons regarding perception, reputation, and, ultimately, success.

Rebecca, Perfect Predecessor

(SPOILERS.)

The narrator, a.k.a. the second Mrs. de Winter, lacks a first name and spends much of the book agonizing over her failure to fill the shoes of the first Mrs. de Winter, whose first name is everywhere in the novel: Rebecca. The second Mrs. de Winter longs for a love from her husband that would match his love for Rebecca, she regrets her inability to manage the house as adeptly as Rebecca, and she is self-conscious of her reputation, which cannot live up to Rebecca’s renown.

In fact, the weight of the narrator’s shortcomings burdens the first half of the book with a plodding ennui that was almost enough to turn this reader away. The narrator is not particularly likable, nor does she even seem to like herself. Every move and every decision she makes is haunted by the specter of Rebecca, and she exhibits minimal individuality, personality, or competence. It is easy for the reader to trust her perception of herself as not only the second, but also the lesser Mrs. de Winter.

In this, Rebecca perfectly captures the dangers of comparison. We err when we view competitors, predecessors, and colleagues as the exclusive measure of our own strengths and accomplishments. For both organizations and individuals, this myopia is destructive. It draws focus away from our most important work, erodes our self-confidence, and leads us to versions of success that don’t fit us at all.

Rebecca, Toxic Influence

(YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED ABOUT THE SPOILERS.)

Eventually, the novel relates a plot twist that reinforces these lessons, when the narrator’s husband, Max de Winter, reveals his deep hatred for the precious Rebecca. Mr. de Winter informs the second Mrs. de Winter (and the reader) that Rebecca was not a perfect and irreplaceable wife, but a cold, cruel, and self-centered woman. He never loved Rebecca; rather, he despised her and perhaps even feared her.

This revelation is significant in two ways. First, it punctuates the danger of competitive comparison, particularly comparison in the absence of research and discernment. We never see the narrator question her assumptions about Rebecca. In fact, she actively ignores clues that her perception may be mistaken, e.g. her sister-in-law Beatrice’s subtle disdain for Rebecca’s memory. Had the narrator solicited opinions or asked questions, she would have spared herself a good deal of wasted time and energy. Rather, she assumes the worst and spirals into self-pity.

Second, Rebecca’s toxicity is a contagion, with a most notable victim in the traumatized Mrs. Danvers. Mrs. Danvers deep hatred of the second Mrs. de Winter not only influences her interactions with her new employer, but also drives her to openly destructive behavior. This aspect of the novel evokes tales of toxic managers whose harm lasts long beyond their last day of employment. The final scene, in which Mrs. Danvers sets fire to Manderley, illustrates the permanent damage that toxic legacies can cause. The “organization” of Manderley, could not survive Rebecca’s loyalists, even if it did survive Rebecca herself.

Rebecca, Noteworthy Iconoclast

(DID I MENTION THE SPOILERS?)

Ultimately, however, Rebecca defies both hagiography and demonization. This is the feminist reading: du Maurier tells the story of a complex woman who is misunderstood by both her greatest admirer and closest companion, Mrs. Daverly, and her nemesis and murderer, Max de Winter. What’s more, the second Mrs. de Winter’s character–the story’s narrator–is merely a reflection of Rebecca’s complicated glow.

Perhaps Rebecca was a woman who did things her own way, in a time when women simply didn’t do that. Her vivacity, her refusal to submit to marriage, and her determination to live and die on her own terms can be admired by modern readers. This interpretation helps to explain why the book, for all its substance, was largely disregarded as fluff when first released in 1938. Readers and critics alike failed to recognize du Maurier’s nuanced depiction of femininity–a theme that would be ahead of its time for decades.

This too has significance for visionary leaders, who are often building what others don’t yet understand. Visionaries, by definition, must challenge accepted best practice and operate outside their own comfort zones, much less the comfort zones of their colleagues, employees, bosses, customers, etc. They are driven not by acceptance, but by individuality, imagination, determination, and an ambition that transcends what is obviously possible.

Sometimes, the avant garde earns only penalties: misunderstanding, mistrust, and even scorn. At other times, creative vision is rewarded with longevity, legacy, and a kind of immortality. Visionaries are those brave enough take the chance–for better, for worse, or, as with du Maurier’s Rebecca, for both.

Just War and the Art of Decision-Making

In September, I attended a University of Virginia panel titled, “The Future of the Just War Tradition.” The panel consisted of a presentation by Richard Miller, a powerhouse in modern just war thinking, along with five short scholarly responses (also impressive). Not only was the subject matter serious and interesting, but the discussion itself also illustrated the manner in which fields of study can and should evolve to stay relevant.

Enrichment Value:

In addition to subject-specific learning, I left the panel impressed by the format of the exchange and the way in which the tradition adapts, albeit carefully. The latter of these was acknowledged by Miller in his opening remarks, when he addressed the importance of both continuity and change to the just war tradition. This “paradox,” as Miller called it, is the essence of decision-making — and it is one I see in every industry I encounter. Decision-makers of all stripes must understand and engage established wisdom, while also adapting to change and inviting the creative energies of new players.

The panel also illustrated the importance of risk assessment. The line between continuity and change is paramount for decision making, but its location varies from problem to problem, industry to industry, organization to organization, and individual to individual. One can begin to identify that line by assessing risk (what’s at stake?), who bears the burden of the risk, and how risk-tolerant those people or entities can afford to be. Every decision — from the ethically fraught decision to enter war to isolated personal decisions — should begin with a careful assessment of risk. That assessment will illuminate the appropriate degree of care, and it will recommend a balance between established wisdom and creative energy.

(I have also used the structure of just war theory as a device to illuminate the ethics of work on LinkedIn Pulse. Read more…)

Enrichment Content:

Here’s a quick 101 on the just war tradition. As a body of work, just war theory explores the ethics of war. The tradition asks (and answers) questions regarding when it is ethically appropriate to engage in warfare, and how one might do so ethically. Traces of the tradition can be found throughout the history of warfare, dating well before its formal beginnings in the Catholic Church. It began to gain traction as a cohesive theory in the fifteenth century, and ultimately became a dominant framework for contemporary ethics of war.

The just war tradition is distinct from pacifism because, notwithstanding their shared presumption against violence, the just war tradition posits that war can sometimes be just justified. Just war theory has traditionally presented two categories of justification: jus ad bellum, which governs the decision to go to war, and jus in bello, which governs conduct in war. Contemporary thinkers have added others, including jus post bellum, which governs the end of conflict and peacemaking, and jus ad vim, which incorporates non-state actors into a broader examination of just force.

At the panel, Miller sketched a vision for the just war tradition that both respects the continuity of the tradition and addresses the changing context of warfare, specifically the new realities of humanitarian intervention, terrorism, drone warfare, and cyber warfare. In all of these, he emphasized the significance of asymmetric war. Respondents challenged Miller energetically and respectfully on the following:

R2P: A U.N.-adopted principle known as “responsibility to protect” against atrocities like genocide and ethnic cleansing.
Climate change as a factor reshaping war in the twenty-first century.
The hypocrisy of calling unjust war, “war.” (“Let’s call it slaughter,” argued nerd-famous pacifist Stanley Hauerwas.)
The importance of dialogue for sorting out who has authority as the international order evolves.
The problematic detachment of just war theory from the day-to-day work of military and political leaders.

Heavy stuff! Well worth the effort of engagement.

Strength of Character at Work

I recently met with a client who is handling a thorny challenge with impressive magnanimity. As we discussed her decision, her management of it, and the business impact, it struck me:

My client is doing a brave thing.

I sat back, looked her in the eye, and said, “I want you to know that I admire you for doing this. Most people would be less generous.” Her response was simply, “How could you not?”

That, dear readers, is strength of character.

When you witness strength of character, you should acknowledge it. Tell the person that you admire them. Doing so encourages them to continue their brave work, which will surely be difficult. Equally important, it raises your standards. Marking the moment gives you a mental benchmark for your own difficult decisions.

Stay alert for colleagues and managers who make the tough decisions well. Thank them, and follow their lead. They deserve it, and so do you.

JLP Strategy

Make your mark.