The past few days, I have, when given the opportunity, spent a few happy hours in the afternoon or early evening in the western sunroom, the one I tend to think of as the afternoon room. It is actually lovely most of the day, although perhaps slightly less so in the earliest morning hours, when I tend to prefer the light in the eastern sunroom. Actually, I use both rooms throughout the day, depending on mood and purpose, and their presence played a not-insignificant role in my attraction to this house.
Anyway, for a long while the western sunroom, which remains somewhat devoid of furniture, was the room in which the as-yet-unpacked boxes resided. As such, although I had a chair, and my desk had initially been situated in this room before being moved upstairs, it was not a room in which I could comfortably settle and while away happy hours. The unpacked boxes stood towering over me in remonstrance. But now the boxes are gone, their contents settled around the house, the packing detritus safely sent to recycleville, and I can sit in peace. Eventually a sofa will reside where the pillows are piled haphazardly, and there might well be a table under that lamp as well, but the emptiness does not plague me. It is more a promise as yet unfulfilled.
This room has perfect light for needlework and it is here that my needlework chair resides. I can sit here, enjoying the light, listening to music or a book on tape, happily stitching. Or I can sit with an actual book in my hand, although I do miss having an ottoman, or perhaps a table situated so that I can easily jot down a note or two. Although the needlework chair is comfortable, I suspect that sunroom reading will become more regular once there is a sofa and a table or two.
Nonetheless, it is in this room that I recently finished rereading Upton Sinclair's first Lanny Budd novel, World's End. I would never state that Sinclair is a writer of the highest sort, and although there are beautiful paragraphs here and there, there are also tedious sections, contrived plots, and a lot of history. In fact there are times when the novel reads more like a history book than a novel. But this is my third reading, first in my teens, then in my 30's, and now, closing out my 50's I find I still enjoy reading this book.
The series begins when Lanny is 13 and this volume extends through the end of the first World War, when Lanny is 19. Yes, at times it is a stretch, but Sinclair has positioned his protagonist well: a young American who will grow up with the 20th century, a thoughtful, privileged American with artistic sensibilities who is connected to both conservative American power and liberal European culture, a young man who can bridge cultures and finds himself in contact with the people and forces that shaped history. Through Lanny's eyes, at this point the eyes of a sincere, thoughtful teenager, Sinclair explores the forces and human impulses that shaped 20th century history. I'll probably slowly work my way through the whole series again, as each time I read it I see more, see the story in a different light. Sinclair was a socialist, and this is evident in the telling of the story, but he has a good handle on history and the reader gets a good sense of the human context of the period. In terms of actual characters and events, Sinclair's analysis is on point more often than he is in the weeds, and I find Sinclair's ability to combine history with fiction in a mostly coherent and insightful way quite enjoyable. In fact, even thought I know far more about both early 20th century history and human nature than I did at 16, I still find the story both gripping and thought provoking. Perhaps I am too willing to escape into other worlds, perhaps I get so invested in the every day, that I need to be repeatedly distracted and reminded of the capriciousness of human nature and history, even through fiction. Perhaps more so, more personally, through fiction. So much for clearing up space in the bookcases.
When I started reading World's End I was not yet finished with my previous novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders, mostly because although I loved that book, it was at times incredibly intense and I just needed a good story to fall back on. I didn't quite realize (or remember) how the books would in fact reinforce each other even though they are radically different. Saunders has taken a moment in the life of Abraham Lincoln, the death of his son Willie, and created an intense and fascinating novel full of compassion. Physically the novel is set in a cemetery on the day Lincoln buried his son. But aside from the Lincoln, most of the characters in this book are not the living -- the bardo being a Tibetan term for the period between death and rebirth. The voices of the "sick" (dead) overlap and crowd around the reader, reminding me mostly of the role of the chorus in Greek Tragedy. In fact this novel works very well if one reads it at least in part as if one is reading a play, letting the voices wrap over one simultaneously even though we must read them sequentially. But again perhaps this comparison was also brought home to me because my volumes of Aeschylus are right next to my upstairs reading chair, perhaps influencing my understanding. Now I simply want to reread Aeschylus.
So, this is a novel that is several things simultaneously. It is a novel about the afterlife, about the things we hold on to, perhaps too tightly, and how they shape and limit and constrain us. It is also about Mr. Lincoln; Lincoln the man and Lincoln the President. The author alternates the voices (chorus) from the Bardo, with quotes about the death of Willie Lincoln, comments about the war, comments, both scathing and kind about Lincoln the President and Lincoln the man -- quotes both from actual texts but also fictional quotes. It is about a man who is suffering, but who, through his suffering learns that his own life and his own suffering is just a microcosm of the suffering others, and that suffering cannot be avoided, cannot be avoided without causing more suffering. In this sense there is a very Buddhist subtext to this novel, a subtext of suffering and sorrow, but also the idea that much of living, that our ability to successfully navigate life depends on our ability to enter into the suffering and sorrow of others.
I think I will be thinking about Lincoln In The Bardo for a long time, and I'll probably reread it. It is a novel that strikes me as being about more than it appears to be. On the surface there is at times a flippancy, and almost carnival atmosphere, to the novel, and it can be read as such. But this is just the surface fog, a gloss that does not hide, but in fact slowly reveals greater allegorical depths, and I do think this novel shows great depth. The pain, the humor, the grotesqueries, the carnival atmosphere, the anger and angst and fear and denial, all point to something essential about the human condition. I'm not sure it is a novel for everyone and it may seem overly pretentious and manipulative; yet I increasingly think it may be brilliant and I need to read it again, perhaps soon, then perhaps again in a few years.
In the end that is always my test. What will I think of this book when I read it again in 10 or 15 years. Don't expect anything profound, but then we never do know where our relationships are heading do we? We never know, when we open a book, whether it will be a passing fancy, or if and how the words may speak to us. This is the gift a writer brings, the gift of relationship the ability to form a relationship with the reader through words, words that connect us to our fellow humans and through these words, to further relationships with ourselves and humanity. We never know quite what will be revealed.
