I'm quite cautious of reading first-hand experiences of history. You have individuals like Wiesel who's been admonished by other survivors because he lied or made his words seem more grand than they were. Not discounting Nazi atrocities towards Jews and other ethnic and religious minorities of course. Though I'm sure Defonseca was about the worst offender I'd come across. Rosenblat is right up there on my list of "word that starts with "t" and ends with "t" and is quite offense."
Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.
While there is a point worth noting in the post - the possible perils of first hand history (that it may be biased, partisan, lacking in objectivity, overlooking some salient inconvenient facts, or the contributions of inconvenient or disliked people, or, the obvious one, giving the author a larger role in events than a passing acquaintance with the truth might suggest)- there is also, for the historian, (and yes, I am one) something invaluable about the immediacy of first hand sources.
While we can question, interrogate, and occasionally dispute their - those who write first hand accounts - accounts and motives, we cannot discount them entirely. After all, they were 'there' and we weren't, and we can't gainsay that.
Nor can we discount what they say are their motivations entirely, - after all, do we live in their head? - though we may - from other sources or intelligent extrapolation - be able to add depth and nuance to how we might understand what they claim was their prime motivation.
For verification, you often use an approach roughly equivalent to intellectual triangulation: You check as many contemporary sources of the one event, or meeting, or thing, as possible, and try to get an 'overview' of what happened from that; sometimes, these sources will corroborate one another, sometimes they may even contradict one another, or one or two may mention or highlight something overlooked by the original source.
Re Churchill, he came from the minor branch of an old aristocratic family, and so had to make his own way in the world financially. Apart from his time in office, (and he served in the prewar and early WW1 Liberal administration of Campbell-Bannerman and Asquith), before later serving with the Conservatives in a number of administrations in the 20s, he mostly made his living from writing.
Actually, he was a prolific, and excellent writer, with a romantic's view of the British Empire, and a keen nose for history, and a genuine talent with the spoken and written word in English. Of course he had a considerable ego; he was a gifted man. And, he famously said that history would treat him kindly for he intended to write it himself.
Having said that, this is no reason not to read his work, even on matters where he played a major role (WW2); it is just that one might treat some of the perspectives and interpretations with a slight caution.
As a military leader, he was an unmitigated disaster - but loved the drama and romance of war.
However, as a political leader at a time of enormous peril, he was without equal, and his character - that obdurate mix of high intelligence, astonishing and awesome rhetoric, romantic but realistic optimism, and genuine courage allied to an undoubted capacity for doing the right thing as a leader, meant that 1940 was his finest hour, and he has been rightly lauded for that.
There's something incredibly screwy with an individuals mind when they decide to profit off of something like the Holocaust.
Again. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.
What a breathtakingly limited view of things.
Is profit the only possible governing motive for human activity? Seriously?
Now, I know that rabid free marketeers think that it is, - that nothing else animates or motivates any possible human action, but I beg to differ.
What about Primo Levi? Is profit the only possible motive for a Holocaust survivor to want to write about, or try to make sense of, what happened, how it happened, why it happened, and why it happened to them.
I have read a lot about WW2, (and WW1, for that matter).
Most who wrote first hand accounts were bearing witness to what happened, and were animated by a profound sense of duty. Others felt an obligation to tell the tales of those who had not survived. Some sought to try to make sense of what had happened. Yet others, (yes, this happens too, we are human) sought to influence how these matters are perceived in the public mind and wrote for history. While yet others sought to justify themselves.
But few were animated, or motivated, strictly by the desire to make money from what were - for some - appalling memories that they would never be rid of.