After perhaps thirty minutes the unkempt man left the white stone home and stumbled away into the darkness.
Entering, I found the boy sitting in one corner.
My father, he said.
Yes, I said.
He said he will come again, he said. He promised.
I found myself immeasurably and inexplicably moved.
A miracle, I said.
the reverend everly thomas
February 25, 1862
President Lincoln has returned to the cemetery where his son, Willie, had earlier been interred in his sick-box. The father is overcome with grief for his son, holding him and arranging his hair and creating a dreadful longing amongst the ghosts already there, for they yearn to be touched by someone from “that other place.”
The ghosts: roger bevins iii, hans vollman, the reverend everly thomas, converse amongst themselves thereby filling us in as to the goings-on in the Oak Hill Cemetery. Their voices are interspersed with other ghosts, all indicated by names which are not capitalized, a perfect way to show how “unsubstantial” they are.
As for a bardo…in Tibetan Buddhism, a bardo is a state of existence between death and rebirth. It is in this bardo that the ghosts exist, discussing amongst themselves the woes of death, the way that people have arrived to dwell in the bardo with them. Their conversation is rich in imagination, lush with detail. Who among us does not wonder about how it will be when we depart from this world?
When Mr. Lincoln mourns his son, one of the ghosts imagines what he is thinking:
Because I love him so and am in the habit of loving him and that love must take the form of fussing and worry and doing. Only there is nothing left to do. Free myself of this darkness as I can, remain useful, not go mad. Think of him, when I do, as being in some bright place, free of suffering, resplendent in a new mode of being.
Thus thought the gentleman. Thoughtfully combing a patch of grass with his hand.
roger bevins iii
Yet the perspectives which Saunders has written about President Lincoln could well apply to those felt toward our own President Trump today. Look at the irony within these sentiments:
The Presdt is an idiot. ~In “The Civil War Papers of George B. McClellan,” edited by Stephen Sears
Vain, weak, puerile, hypocritical, without manners, without social grace, and as he talks to you, punches his fists under your ribs. ~In “The War Years,” by Carl Sandburg, account of SherrardnClemens
Evidently a person of very inferior cast of character, wholly unequal to the crisis. ~In “The Emergence of Lincoln: Prologue to the Civil War, 1859-1861, by Allen Nevins account of Edward Everett
These disparaging points of view go on for much longer than I could type them, or perhaps than you would want to read them. We all know of the negative perspectives people have toward our current leader. I only mention them here to point to Saunders’ apt imagination and research, applicable to more than the character of whom he writes.
While I found Lincoln in the Bardo clever and imaginative, ultimately it does not hold up to either Solar Bones or Days Without End, both of which will be hard to beat in my mind.