George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo

The large crowd disappeared inside the chapel and from my open window I could hear the proceedings within: music, a sermon, weeping. Then the gathering dispersed & the carriages moved off, several becoming stuck & requiring unsticking, the street & lawns being left a considerable mess.

Then today, again wet & cold, and, around two, a single small carriage arrived & stopped at the cemetery gate & again the President got out, this time accompanied by three gentlemen: one young & two OLD. — they were met at the gate by Mr. Weston & his young assistant & all went off to the chapel — Before long, the assistant being joined by a helper, they were seen to be managing a small coffin on to a handcart & off the sad party went, cart in the lead, the President & his companions plodding along behind — their destination appeared to be to the northwest corner of the cemetery. The hill there being steep and the rain continuing, it made a strange joining of somber melancholy & riotous awkwardness, the assistants struggling to keep the tiny coffin upon the cart—& at the same time all parties, even Mr. L., diligently mincing to maintain their footing on the rainslick grass.

Anyway it appears the poor Lincoln child is to be left there across the road, contrary to reports in the newspapers, which ventured that he would be returning to Illinois forthwith. They have been loaned a place in the crypt belonging to Judge Carroll, & only imagine the pain of that, Andrew, to drop one’s precious son into that cold stone like some broken bird & be on your way.

Quiet tonight, & even the Creek seems to murmur along more quietly than usual, dear Brother. The moon came out just now & lit the stones in the cemetery — for an instant it appeared the grounds had been overrun with angels of various shapes and sizes: fat angels, dog-sized angels, angels upon horseback, etc.

I have grown comfortable having these Dead for company, and find them agreeable companions, over there in their Soil & cold stone Houses.

In “Wartime Washington: The Civil War Letters of Isabelle Perkins,” compiled and edited by Nash Perkins III, entry of February 25, 1862.

So the President left his boy in a loaned tomb and went back to his work for the country.

In “Lincoln: A Story for Boys,” by Maxwell Flagg.

Nothing could have been more peaceful or more beautiful than the situation of this tomb and it was completely undiscoverable to the casual cemetery visitor, being the very last tomb on the left at the extreme far reaches of the grounds, at the top of an almost perpendicular hillside that descended to Rock Creek below. The rapid water made a pleasant rushing sound and the forest trees stood up bare and strong against the sky.

Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.

Early in my youth I found I had a certain predilection which, to me, felt quite natural and even wonderful, but to others — my father, mother, brothers, friends, teachers, clergy, grandparents — my predilection did not seem natural or wonderful at all, but perverse and shameful, and hence I suffered: must I deny my predilection, and marry, and doom myself to a certain, shall we say, dearth of fulfillment? I wished to be happy (as I believe all wish to be happy), and so undertook an innocent — well, a rather innocent — friendship with a fellow in my school. But we soon saw that there was no hope for us, and so (to race past a few details, and stops-and-starts, and fresh beginnings, and heartfelt resolutions, and betrayals of those resolutions, there, in one corner of the, ah, carriage house, and so on), one afternoon, a day or so after a particularly frank talk, in which Gilbert stated his intention to henceforth “live correctly,” I took a butcher knife to my room and, after writing a note to my parents (I am sorry, was the gist), and another to him (I have loved, and therefore depart fulfilled), I slit my wrists rather savagely over a porcelain tub.

Feeling nauseous at the quantity of blood and its sudden percussive redness against the whiteness of the tub, I settled myself woozily down on the floor, at which time I — well, it is a little embarrassing, but let me just say it: I changed my mind. 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 brink 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: swarms of insects dancing in slant-rays of August sun; a trio of black horses standing hock-deep and head-to-head in a field of snow; a waft of beef broth arriving breeze-borne from an orange-hued window on a chill autumn—

roger bevins iii

Sir. Friend.

hans vollman

Am I — am I doing it again?

roger bevins iii

You are.

Take a breath. All is well.

I believe you are somewhat alarming our new arrival.

hans vollman

Many apologies, young sir. I only meant, in my way, to welcome you.

roger bevins iii

Feeling “nauseous at the quantity of blood,” you “settled yourself woozily down on the floor” and “changed your mind.”

hans vollman

Yes.

Feeling nauseous at the quantity of blood and its sudden percussive redness against the whiteness of the tub, I settled myself woozily down on the floor. At which time I changed my mind.

Knowing that my only hope was to be found by one of the servants, I stumbled to the stairs and threw myself down. From there, I managed to crawl into the kitchen—

Which is where I remain.

I am waiting to be discovered (having come to rest on the floor, head against the stove, upended chair nearby, sliver of an orange peel against my cheek), so that I may be revived, and rise, and clean up the awful mess I have made (Mother will not be pleased), and go outside, into that beautiful world, a new and more courageous man, and begin to live! Will I follow my predilection? I will! With gusto! Having come so close to losing everything, I am freed now of all fear, hesitation, and timidity, and, once revived, intend to devoutly wander the earth, imbibing, smelling, sampling, loving whomever I please; touching, tasting, standing very still among the beautiful things of this world, such as, for example: a sleeping dog dream-kicking in a tree-shade triangle; a sugar pyramid upon a blackwood tabletop being rearranged grain-by-grain by an indiscernible draft; a cloud passing ship-like above a rounded green hill, atop which a line of colored shirts energetically dance in the wind, while down below in town, a purple-blue day unfolds (the muse of spring incarnate), each moist-grassed, flower-pierced yard gone positively mad with—

roger bevins iii

Friend.

Bevins.

hans vollman

“Bevins” had several sets of eyes All darting to and fro Several noses All sniffing His hands (he had multiple sets of hands, or else his hands were so quick they seemed to be many) struck this way and that, picking things up, bringing them to his face with a most inquisitive

Little bit scary

In telling his story he had grown so many extra eyes and noses and hands that his body all but vanished Eyes like grapes on a vine Hands feeling the eyes Noses smelling the hands