George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo

On his knees by the fence, mumbling to himself.

mr. leonard reedy

Then, the usual big to-do:

Flash of light, clothes raining down.

matthew crutcher

No more Bevins.

richard crutcher

The sun was nearly up.

Those of us who had survived that ghastly night huddled, conferred, went on brief sprinting expeditions, searching for survivors.

We did not find Purdy, nor Johannes, nor Crawley.

Did not find Pickler, Ella Blow, Verna Blow, Appleton, Scarry, Thorne.

Midden was missing, as were Goncourt, Cupp, Edwell, and Longstreet.

Reverend Thomas: missing.

Even Bevins and Vollman, two of our most long-standing and faithful residents: gone.

How we pitied these. So gullible. Broken by the rantings of a mere boy. Lost forever.

Sweet fools.

lance durning

Here we were. Were we not? If not, who spoke? Who heard?

percival “dash” collier

What a slaughter.

And we had only managed to survey a tiny fraction of the premises.

lance durning

Soon day began to break in earnest, and here came the usual all-body weakness, and the accompanying sense of diminishment, and we dashed off for our respective home-places, and situated ourselves squeamishly within our sick-forms, eyes closed or averted, so as not to see what those foul things had become.

robert g. twistings

And as the sun came up, we prayed, each within ourselves, our usual prayer:

lawrence t. decroix

To still be here when the sun next set.

mrs. antoinette boxer

And discover, in those first moments of restored movement, that we had again been granted the great mother-gift:

robert g. twistings

Time.

lance durning

More time.

percival “dash” collier

As always at Sun’s rising, the two realms Merg’d, and all that was true in Ours, became true in Theirs: all the Stones, Trees, Shrubs, Hills, Valleys, Streams, Pondlets, Marshes, Patches of Light & Shade, merg’d, and were the same Betwixt the two Environs, and you could not have told one Realm from the other.

Much that was New & Strange & Unnerving had occurr’d this night.

We Three Bachelors had watched it all unfold from On-High: safe, separate, & Free — the way we liked it.

I enjoined my young Charges that we must now beat a hasty Retreat to our Sick-boxes, & get Ourselves within.

Within that which Awaited us there.

stanley “perfesser” lippert

Faugh.

gene “rascal” kane

We did not like entering those things.

jack “malarkey” fuller

At all.

gene “rascal” kane

But that was the Price; we must abide, fully Awake but Inert, within those Foul Things that had once Resembled (aye, had once Been ) us (& which we had loved so Dearly) until such time as Night Again fell, at which time, shooting Forth, we would be—

stanley “perfesser” lippert

Free.

gene “rascal” kane

Free again.

jack “malarkey” fuller

Ourselves, truly.

gene “rascal” kane

All of Bless’d Creation restored to us.

stanley “perfesser” lippert

Everything again possible.

gene “rascal” kane

We Three had never Wed, nor truly Lov’d, but, once Night fell again, and if we found ourselves still Resident here, might strike the “never”—

stanley “perfesser” lippert

For until we are ended, “never” may not be truly said.

jack “malarkey” fuller

And love may yet be ours.

gene “rascal” kane

Just now took lantern out to Carroll crypt Tom to make sure all was well and found young Lincoln’s coffin slightly jutting out of the wallslot and pushed it back in oh that poor little fellow concluding his first ever lonely night here of many such lonely nights to come a long sad eternity of such nights.

Could not help but think of our Philip about same age as Pres’s boy who will be racing about the yard and come in just positively lit up from inside with joy of living having been flirting over fence with the misses amy & reba leonard nextdoor his hair tousled and grab a broom and in his overflow of happy spirits goose Mrs Alberts the cook in her hindquarters but when she turns to give him a wallop back holding a tremendous turnip and sees that glowing face what can she do but drop said turnip into washbasin and grabbing him about neck smother him with kisses while I secretly hand her broom so as he scats away victorious she can give him a sort of avenging goose of her own in his familiar playworn trousers and a good poke too as that ladys arms are like pot roasts O Lord I cannot bear the thought of Philip lying still in such a place as this and when that thought arises must hum some scrap of tune energetically while praying No no no take that cup away Lord let me go first before any of them I love (before Philip Mary Jack Jr. before dear Lydia) only thats no good either since when they reach their end I will not be there to help them? O either way it is unbearable O God what a bind one is in down here Tom dear friend Tom I long for sleep I await your arrival, & hope these sad & morbid thoughts will soon fade away soon with the happy sight of our dear friend rising the Sun.

Manders, op. cit.

I rode along in that gentleman, upon our little horse, through those quiet streets, and I was not unhappy. Though he was. He had neglected his wife by this night’s indulgence, he felt. And they had another little sick boy at home. Who might also succumb. Though he was better today, he might yet succumb. Anything could happen. As he now knew. He had forgotten. He had somewhat forgotten, about the other boy.

Tad. Dear little Tad.

The gentleman had much on his mind. He did not wish to live. Not really. It was, just now, too hard. There was so much to do, he was not doing it well and, if done poorly, all would go to ruin. Perhaps, in time (he told himself) it would get better, and might even be good again. He did not really believe it. It was hard. Hard for him. Hard for me. To be in there. I resolved nevertheless to stay. It was getting on near morning. Normally, during the day, we took our rest. Were drawn back to our shells and must rest in there. Tonight I did not feel that draw. But I was sleepy. I dozed, and slipped through him, into his horse, who was, I felt at that moment, pure Patience, head to hoof, and fond of the man, and never before had I felt oats to be such a positive thing in the world, or so craved a certain blue blanket. And then I roused myself, and sat up straight, and fully rejoined the gentleman.

And we rode forward into the night, past the sleeping houses of our countrymen.

thomas havens

For Caitlin and Alena

CivilWarLand in Bad Decline

Pastoralia

The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip

The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil

In Persuasion Nation

Tenth of December

Lincoln in the Bardo

The Braindead Megaphone

Congratulations, by the Way

GEORGE SAUNDERS is the author of nine books, including Tenth of December, which was a finalist for the National Book Award and won the inaugural Folio Prize (for the best work of fiction in English) and the Story Prize (best short-story collection). He has received MacArthur and Guggenheim fellowships and the PEN/Malamud Prize for excellence in the short story, and was recently elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. In 2013, he was named one of the world’s 100 most influential people by Time magazine. He teaches in the creative writing program at Syracuse University.