Most people will come to this biography with bemusement. They might wonder why the preposterously pink Barbara Cartland, purveyor of pulp paperback romances, is worthy of anyone’s attention, let alone that of the cultured Matthew Sweet.

Not I. A few years ago I wrote a novel about Princess Diana and her unlikely, even farcical, path to the royal altar. While researching my book, I discovered that the young Diana was addicted to Barbara Cartland novels, a refuge from her unhappy childhood. The books completely shaped her world. They were full of ill-used virgins being rescued by handsome princes, so she imagined Charles a dashing hero and marriage to him everlasting bliss. 

Obviously, things didn’t quite pan out that way. But the cultural and historical importance of Barbara Cartland should not be underestimated. Given her books’ impact on Diana, and Diana’s impact on the royal family (still playing itself out), Cartland’s supposedly trivial novels are, one might argue, among the most consequential