Lincoln in the Bardo

When it was published this past winter, I made a mental note that I wished to read George Saunders's Lincoln in the Bardo. The reviews, to be certain, were rapturous, and the subject represents a confluence of several of my interests (Lincolniana, postmodern literature, melancholy). I just finished the book, and highly recommend it. Here's the gist: the body of Abraham Lincoln's son Willie has just been interred in Oak Hill Cemetery, and his soul lingers there, instead of passing on ahead to — whatever follows. The story is related by the souls of the dead men and women of the graveyard, those who have also refused to leave, over the course of a single night in 1862. Narratively, then, Lincoln in the Bardo resembles the transcript of an audio play, for the dozens of characters interrupt, contradict, reinforce, argue. Some readers have found the narrative effect disorienting, but I liked it very much. (Apparently the audio book captures the spirit of the book very well, as it is narrated by an appropriately large cast of voice actors.) To say Saunders is a terrific writer is a feeble understatement. I'll simply quote, here, one of my favorite passages in the book. (It's lightly edited for flow, as the original is narrated by two of the main characters. I've condensed it into two paragraphs.)

His [Lincoln's] 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 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 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 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.