215. Lincoln in the Bardo
Rating: ☆☆☆
Author: George Saunders
Genre: Fiction, Historical Fiction
343 pages, published February 14, 2017
Reading Format: Audio Book
Summary
Set in a graveyard during a single night in February 1862 and narrated by a variety of characters stuck in a limbo type existence, Lincoln in the Bardo is a unique literary experience. It is near the beginning of the Civil War and President Lincoln’s beloved eleven-year-old son Willie dies and is buried in a Georgetown cemetery. A grieving Lincoln returns to the crypt several times alone to hold his boy’s body. Willie Lincoln finds himself in a strange purgatory in a graveyard populated by a bizarre set of ghosts. Within this transitional state, called a bardo in Tibetan tradition, a epic struggle ensures over Willie’s soul.
Quotes
“His mind was freshly inclined toward sorrow; toward the fact that the world was full of sorrow; that everyone labored under some burden of sorrow; that all were suffering; that whatever way one took in this world, one must try to remember that all were suffering (none content; all wronged, neglected, overlooked, misunderstood), and therefore one must do what one could to lighten the load of those with whom one came into contact; that his current state of sorrow was not uniquely his, not at all, but, rather, its like had been felt, would be felt, by scores of others, in all times, in every time, and must not be prolonged or exaggerated, because, in this state, he could be of no help to anyone and, given that his position in the world situated him to be either of great help, or great harm, it would not do to stay low, if he could help it.”
“Strange, isn’t it? To have dedicated one’s life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one’s life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one’s labors ultimately forgotten?”
“Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them.”
“What I mean to say is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Not lonely, not lost, not freakish, but wise, each in his or her own way. Our departures caused pain. Those who had loved us sat upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved, I say, and remembering us, even many years later, people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.”
“Only then (nearly out the door, so to speak) did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the bring of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing.”
“When a child is lost there is no end to the self-torment a parent may inflict. When we love, and the object of our love is small, weak, and vulnerable, and has looked to us and us alone for protection; and when such protection, for whatever reason, has failed, what consolation (what justification, what defense) may there possibly be?”
“His mind was freshly inclined to sorrow; toward the fact that the world was full of sorrow; that all were suffering; that whatever way one took in the world one must try to remember that all were suffering (non content all wronged, neglected, overlooked, misunderstood), and therefore one must do what one could to lighten the load of those with whom one came into contact; that his current state of sorrow was not uniquely his, not at all, but rather, its like had been felt, would yet be felt, by scores of others in all times, in every time, and must not be prolonged or exaggerated, because, in this state, he could be of no help to anyone, and given that his position in the world situated him to be either of great help or great harm, it would not do to stay low, if he could help it.
All were in sorrow, or had been, or soon would be.
It was the nature of things.
Though on the surface is seemed every person was different, this was not true.
At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual end; the many loses we must experience on the way to that end.
We must try to see one another in this way.
As suffering limited beings-
Perennially outmatched by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.
His sympathy extended to all in this instant, blundering in its strict logic, across all divides.”
“Oh, the pathos of it! – haggard, drawn into fixed lines of unutterable sadness, with a look of loneliness, as of a soul whose depth of sorrow and bitterness no human sympathy could ever reach. The impression I carried away was that I had seen, not so much the President of the United States, as the saddest man in the world.”
My Take
While Lincoln in the Bardo has received numerous awards (Man Booker Prize (2017), Andrew Carnegie Medal Nominee for Fiction (2018), Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Historical Fiction (2017), Waterstones Book of the Year Nominee (2017), Gordon Burn Prize Nominee for Longlist (2017)), I liked it, but did not love it. First of all, the book is a serious downer with its focus on grief and loss. George Saunders has some eloquent things to say on these subject and does so in a very inventive and creative manner (hence all of the awards). However, I found it difficult to really get into this book and didn’t mind at all when I finished.
