Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders
Title: Lincoln in the Bardo
Author: George Saunders
Published: Fiction
Type: Fiction
Pages: 343
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… all were in sorrow, or had been, or soon would be. It was the nature of things. Though on the surface it seemed every person was different, this was not true. At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual end, the many losses we must experience on the way to that end. We must try to see each other in this way. As suffering, limited beings -- Perennially outmatched by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.
In Brief:
A really beautiful, avant-garde reflection on life, death, grief, and letting go. Very strangely told and certainly not for everyone, but it made me cry, made me laugh, and gave me comfort in the last few weeks.
Rating: 4.4
Synopsis:
Saunder’s first novel (he was already a master of the short story), takes place in a sort of purgatory or afterlife – specifically, he calls it the “bardo,” a term from Tibetan Buddhism that refers to the state immediately after death, and before what comes next. The titular “Lincoln” is Willie, the young son of Abe who died of typhoid fever in the midst of America’s Civil War.
The ghosts in the bardo, including Wilie, are those who haven’t realized themselves yet to be dead, or who are reluctant to leave, despite the angels/demons who appear intermittently to urge them onwards. They are all types – soldiers, slaves, rapists, priests. They’re often disfigured, their apparitions warped to reflect their past sins or regrets. When Willie arrives, they urge him to move on – children aren’t strong enough to last long in the bardo. Almost immediately upon Willie’s arrival, creeping tendrils of the damned pursue him, seeking to pin him to the ground and destroy what’s left of his consciousness.
But Willie stubbornly insists on staying, wanting to see his father who promised to come back and visit. The president is distraught – not only from his son’s death, but the thousands of sons dying in the war, buckling under the pressure and stress forced upon him. He lingers at his son’s grave, holding onto his corpse and struggling to come to cope with the loss. Both he and Willie must come to terms with their grief, summon the strength to carry on.
Where I’m At:
So for once, I can hardly say that nothing’s going on.
I don’t really have the words to describe what’s happening in my country right now. And I know I’m not the one who needs to be heard. But, small as it is, this is my platform and I feel obligated to use it, name what this is.
The way that black Americans are treated today, especially by police and our criminal justice system, is unconscionable. I cannot begin to imagine the fear and stress they’re forced to live with every day in this country that claims to promote equality and freedom. I cannot begin to fathom all the things that I, as a white woman, take for granted. But I’m trying. There is racism and white supremacy baked into our country’s structures and institutions, which benefit me and force others into a category where they are treated as lesser citizens.
Some statistics, if that suits you: Black people are 3 times more likely to be killed by a police officer, and 1.3 times more likely to be unarmed. Black women are 3-4 times more likely to die in childbirth than white women. Black Americans are incarcerated at 5 times the rate of white Americans. Black Americans are 2.5 times more likely to be living in poverty than white Americans.
I could go on. No wonder people are screaming.
My coworker who directs our giving to Criminal Justice Reform posted this twitter thread about places to donate. I urge you to do so. I also especially like this spoken-word poem from 2018 (quoted on my shirt) that still holds today. I’m also holding myself to read more books by black authors, books about my privilege and the deep roots of racism in this country. There are so many lists out there now. I’m trying to educate myself, speak up and do what I can to be an anti-racist ally. I urge you to do that too.
Reading Lincoln in the Bardo, which of course centers around the civil war and abomination of slavery, during this time reminded me how far we still have to go. Slavery was of course much worse than where we’re at now. But, 155 years later, we’re not remotely close to the promise of equality referenced in Lincoln’s famed Gettysburg address. So let’s get to work.
On a separate, more personal note, a friend of mine died suddenly while I was reading this book. It was shocking, tragic. He was young (I originally typed is). In the days after I found out, I laid in bed helplessly crying for hours. I searched for every possible memory of him, replaying them incessantly in my mind, stared at pictures to memorize the details of his face. It felt like some small but essential piece I didn’t even know I had in my heart was torn out, lost.
We weren’t necessarily close, not on an individual level. The grief doesn’t quite feel mine, and I can’t imagine what his family and close friends are going through. But he was in the Peace Corps with me, part of a small group assigned to St. Vincent and the Grenadines. There was a bond created there, a shared not-quite-traumatic-but-let’s-say-very-influential experience. He actually quit on the same day as I did, completely unrelatedly. He was gentle, goofy. You could always look to him for a good-natured joke, steady support.
I don’t understand it. It’s not right, not fair.
Somehow, reading this book helped a bit. It gave words to my sadness, the loss I’m still struggling to comprehend. It reminded me that I’m not alone, that grief is something we as humans share, and we can draw strength from one another.
Getting Into it:
Alright, that was a lot. Let’s get into it.
First of all, I have to explain the structure of the book. It’s weird. Chapters are split between dialogue from the ghosts and excerpts from historic accounts of Willie’s death (some real, some invented by Saunders). That makes it tough to read. There’s some that reads like stream-of-conscious garble, others so heavy with the speaker’s accent I could barely decipher its sentiment. Though the actual plot of the book takes place over the course of just one night, it’s full of tangents and interruptions, so many voices clamoring to be heard.
Still, the reading gets easier as you go, and I came to appreciate the creativity, the strength of the voices and the wholly-realized characters behind them. There’s a touch of absurdism and humor in all the overlapping, over-dramatic stories which, if you haven’t caught on yet, I love. The historic excerpts also showed various versions of the same story, reminding me of the polarized news today, but also how every person has their own narrative, can experience the exact same circumstances differently. I do wonder if the radical format was necessary – could the same have been accomplished otherwise? Either way, it’s a remarkable achievement in ingenuity and imagination.
Beyond that, the book delivers a beautiful and powerful message about our shared grief and humanity. It’s beautifully done – I cried several times reading it, the most when, just after accepting his death, Willie Lincoln’s ghost takes on the forms of his future selves, the life he would never experience.
Nervous young man in a wedding-coat;
Naked husband, wet-groined with recent pleasure;
Young father leaping out of bed to light a candle at a child’s cry;
Grieving widower, hair gone white;
Bent ancient fellow with an ear trumpet, athwart a stump, swatting at flies.
With his vast array of characters, Saunders points obliquely to the sameness of people, the mortality that binds us all. Even Abe Lincoln, a president, a revered figure in the US imagination, is humanized – just a man who mourns his young son, in a time where thousands of other men across the country are also mourning their young sons. Saunders is gentle, but firm that although a loss is a tragedy, it’s imperative to let go.
Oh, it was nice, he said sadly. So nice there. But we can’t go back. To how we were. All we can do is what we should.
Despite how much I loved it, I’m hesitant to soundly recommend this book. Again, it’s weird. The structure is weird, the plot is weird. If you look at Goodreads, it’s very polarizing. But if you’re interested in something resoundingly different and experimental, definitely go for it. I know I said this about Whitehead recently, but Saunders is arguably another of the best and more influential writers of this time, so it’s worth it. I also think it’s especially pertinent in these times to remember that at the end of the day, all of us in this world are more similar than we might seem, all going through life with all its joy and grief together.
