Diary of an Autodidact: historical fiction

I first read about Colson Whitehead back in 2016, when The Underground Railroad was published - and won the Pulitzer. I didn’t read it then, because it was quite popular, and thus the library wait list was pretty long. Instead, I grabbed an audiobook of Zone One, best described as a literary fiction meets the zombie apocalypse. It was a bit out of my usual reading zone, but quite thoughtful, so I added Whitehead to my regular read list. That it has taken me more than three years to read him again is sad, although it isn’t for lack of trying. I nominated different books of his for our book club, but they never got enough votes to be chosen. Oh well.

The Underground Railroad also defies expectations. On the one hand, it is fantastical: the Underground Railroad is re-envisioned as a literal railroad, with underground tunnels and trains. Kind of like a subway at continental scale. (This leads to one of the most hilarious lines in the book, from one of the station operators: “If you want to see what this nation is all about, I always say, you have to ride the rails. Look outside as you speed through, and you’ll find the true face of America.”)

Add to this a symbolic character: the slavecatcher Ridgeway, who is kind of a less appealing Javert, and that pretty much sums up the fantastical elements. There are other parts that I think can be seen as metaphorical - indeed, the whole book is a synecdoche. But much of the book is at least on the surface quite realistic.

To be sure, Whitehead does not pull punches in showing the brutality of slavery and white supremacy. The book is in sections devoted to certain states, each of which has its own flavor - and expression of racial violence. It starts on the plantation in Georgia, which is pretty much a typical plantation narrative. (There are plenty of sad connections between Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Kindred.) From there, once the protagonist, Cora, escapes on the Railroad, the scene shifts to South Carolina, where a “model” town of free negroes is revealed to be the center of medical experimentation and involuntary sterilizations. North Carolina (in this telling) has decided to attempt to end slavery by outlawing (and exterminating) its negro population, and replacing them with Irish and German immigrants. (While this didn’t happen on a statewide scale, and mass deportation was usually preferred to genocide, this idea was shockingly popular in white intellectual circles at the time.) Tennessee has become a fire and plague ravaged wasteland. Indiana, formerly a slave state, now a free state, expresses its violence by proto-Jim Crow and pogroms against free African-American communities which become “too successful.”

Against this background, Whitehead tells of Cora, a teenage who escapes. But she is believably human - in fact, she just wants to live her life as a human, free from disrespect and violence. Which is pretty much what we all want, isn’t it? At least the decent people among us?

The problem, of course, is that the United States still has a system of white supremacy that expresses itself in violence when threatened. (See, for example, our ongoing problem with police brutality, and our vicious approach to immigration from Latin America.) I think the strongest element of this book is the way that Whitehead demonstrates the way that slavery, white supremacy, and racism function as a system which brutalizes everyone. It destroys everyone, and makes the nation as a whole far less strong and functional than it should be. Even those who “benefit” from the system are degraded and spiritually violated. And those who fight the system fare badly almost across the board. It is easy to forget just how much those who worked the real-life Underground Railroad risked - and how many paid the ultimate price.

Colson Whitehead’s style tends to be ironic and more than a bit snarky. This book isn’t quite that way, because of the topic. There are certainly moments which seem satirical, and there is enough of the combination of cynicism and determination to survive to make it recognizable as a Whitehead book. I also found a certain similarity between this one and Zone One. After all, the protagonist is on the run from an overwhelming menace, and finds ways to survive. And the ending is equally ambiguous. The book ends, but the journey doesn’t.

As usual, I have to quote a few lines that were outstanding. First is this one, about the first white man working on the Railroad that Cora encounters, a man named Fletcher who offers Cora’s fellow slave Caesar a ride.

He had met this sort of white man before, earnest and believing what came out of their mouths. The veracity of their words was another matter, but at least they believed them.

That’s a classic Whitehead observation, ironic, snarky, and uncomfortably true. Another is essentially Ridgeway’s observation about the white immigrants and their future role in America.

The possibilities lay before these pilgrims like a banquet, and they’d been so hungry their whole lives. They’d never seen the likes of this, but they’d leave their mark on this new land, as surely as those famous souls at Jamestown, making it theirs through unstoppable racial logic. If niggers were supposed to have their freedom, they wouldn’t be in chains. If the red man was supposed to keep hold of his land, it’d still be his. If the white man wasn’t destined to take this new world, he wouldn’t own it now.

Here was the Great Spirit, the divine thread connecting all human endeavor - if you can keep it, it is yours. Your property, slave or continent. The American imperative.

Damn, that’s ugly, stated that way. But what else is the meaning of Manifest Destiny? What else is the meaning of the “peculiar institution”? And, although my ancestors didn’t come to the US until the 1880s, didn’t we just assume it was our right to free stolen land through the Homestead Act? Didn’t we assume that we had the right to the benefits of a segregated society? Alas, that’s the case, from what I can tell listening to my ancestors. (And far too many of my extended family, sadly.)

While slavery as it was no longer exists, the poisonous ideas linger. I was struck by what Valentine, the free farmer in Indiana who is concerned about white hostility and considering selling out and moving west, said about the problem.

What we built here...there are too many white people who don’t want us to have it. Even if they didn’t suspect our alliance with the railroad. Look around. If they kill a slave for learning his letters, how do you think they feel about a library? We’re in a room brimming with ideas. Too many ideas for a colored man. Or woman.

And years later, a woman born in freedom - a survivor of the destruction of the farm - comments in a similar vein.

She said that white towns had simply banded together to rid themselves of the black stronghold in their midst. That is how the European tribes operate, she said. If they can’t control it, they destroy it.

This is a thread that runs through our history, as Carol Anderson details in White Rage. (Highly recommended.) This too is something I still hear on a regular basis. An acquaintance talked about moving out of California to a very white (and white supremacist) part of Idaho. “A better cultural climate” was the goal. Which is, well, code for...I don’t think I need to explain that. An older former neighbor said he was planning to move because “when I got here, it was all Americans, but now it’s Mexicans everywhere.” We live in a nice, middle class suburb/exburb filled with professionals and government workers. Cops, lawyers, doctors, teachers, firefighters. But yes, I guess there are a lot more successful non-whites in the neighborhood than there were 30 years ago. I find that rather nice, honestly, but a lot of whites apparently don’t. That makes me sad.

And what is the destruction of the public sector but an example of the “we’d rather destroy it if we can’t control it and keep it away from brown people”?

I also want to mention two interesting scenes. The first involves one of the several “character background” chapters disconnected from the main narrative. It is all about a corpse stealer - providing the medical schools with cadavers. I was reminded of a chapter in Stiff by Mary Roach. Like Roach, Whitehead notes that the advantage of stealing negro corpses is that nobody noticed or cared. Yet another example of the dehumanization inherent in racism.

The second scene is one with Ridgeway and his servant Homer. Ridgeway sees Homer being sold to pay a gambling debt, and buys him, then frees him. But Homer stays on. There is a hint later in the book that some suspect Homer of being Ridgeway’s lover, but Ridgeway has a rather simpler explanation:

“If he’s free, why don’t he go?”

“Where?” Ridgeway asked. “He’s seen enough to know a black boy has no future, free papers or no. Not in this country. Some disreputable character would snatch him and put him on the block lickety-split. With me, he can learn about the world. Find purpose.”

And this, contrasted with Cora’s experiences, gets at the truth. It wasn’t enough to end slavery. It wasn’t enough to end official segregation. Equality requires true equality: political, social, and economic equality. And until that happens, we will never be a truly “free” country.

Colson Whitehead is a fascinating author to me. His writing, as can be seen, has “unliterary” features like contractions and simple sentences. But it is also clearly literary, not boilerplate. It is accessible, but keeps you thinking long afterward. And that includes his zombie novel, which continues to haunt me. I have a few more of his books on my list, and it will be interesting to read them. Not one is in the same genre as another, which is unusual for an author. But so far, the themes in both of his books have some overlap. The survivor against the odds, an ironic detachment, piercing insights into reality, and a refusal to live in denialism of how America really works for people who lack racial privilege.

Friday, February 7, 2020

The Hundred Days by Patrick O'Brian

Source of book: I own this.

This book is number 19 in the Aubrey/Maturin series of novels about the British Navy during and after the Napoleonic Wars. I have read all of the previous books, and reviewed the last few for my blog. Because I do not duplicate all of the background information in each post, it is probably best to read them in order. And by all means, read the books in the correct order, as a particular adventure will often be stretched across several books.

The Letter of Marque

The Nutmeg of Consolation

The Thirteen Gun Salute

Also: SPOILER ALERT!

***

Sorry, but in order to discuss this book properly, there must be spoilers.

First, an historical one. Napoleon escaped from exile at Elba, and embarked on a last effort to conquer Europe. This period, between his escape and Waterloo is now referred to as the “Hundred Days,” hence the title of this book, which is set during that period.

The book, however, does not focus on the land battles, but instead follows the intrigues and skirmishes in the Mediterranean. In the confusion in French politics, the French navy and its officers find themselves in a pickle: do they declare loyalty to King Louis XVIII or follow Napoleon? Or do nothing, hoping to see one party win first? To pick the wrong horse, so to speak, could mean the end of a career or worse…

In addition, there were numerous ships under construction in various Mediterranean ports that could be of use to either the Royal forces (who were nominally allies of Britain) or Napoleon’s imperial navy.

Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin are thus dispatched to the Mediterranean to disrupt anything which would benefit Napoleon, and protect the shipping of England’s allies.

The book essentially begins and ends with death. First is the sudden and unexpected death of Stephen’s wife, Diana, in a carriage accident. (Along with Jack’s mother-in-law.) This kind of catches everyone off guard, as Diana has been a beloved central character since the second book in the series.

Near the end of the book, Aubrey’s coxswain, Barrett Bonden, is killed in action. Bonden has been a supporting character since the very beginning, so his loss is also keenly felt. The hazards of war, though.

The Hundred Days contains a number of related yet distinct episodes. There is the rescue of an ambushed convoy, intelligence intrigue, an extended land trip in Algeria by Stephen, and a dramatic capture of a gold transport.

In addition to the central friendship of Maturin and Aubrey, an additional character makes his appearance as a companion and contrast to Maturin. Amos Jacob is a Jewish physician and spy who signs on to the voyage, ostensibly as an assistant to Maturin, but really because he speaks multiple languages (crucially Arabic and Turkish) and has contacts throughout the Mediterranean. He is also a Cainite, which leads to some rather interesting conversations in the book. Jacob is a strong character, filling a role which had been missing in the series since Mr. Martin retired to a land career.

The episode on land is a rather interesting one. Stephen and Jacob are tasked with convincing the Dey of Algiers to withhold the cash payment to Islamic mercenaries planning to delay the Russian forces from joining England in battle against Napoleon. This ends up completely differently from how everyone expects, because immediately prior to Amos and Stephen’s arrival, the present Dey is strangled, and Omar Pasha takes his place. (This is a fictional character, not to be confused with the historical Omar Pasha - I had to look that up to be sure.) Stephen and the Dey have a hunting trip together, which seems to go well, but Jacob finds out from a source that the Dey has sent the money despite promising not to. At that point, it becomes a race against time to intercept the shipment.

I also enjoyed the mock “battle” between Aubrey’s ships and the ship of a rival French captain. This captain has appeared before in the books, and he and Aubrey have a cordial relationship despite fighting on opposite sides. The French captain faces a dilemma, because he has no love for Napoleon, but his commanding officer has picked the side of Napoleon. Aubrey proposes a way to save face. He will “attack” the French ship - firing blanks - and the French ship will fire back in kind. After that, the French ship will surrender, realizing that it is outnumbered and outgunned. (Both quite true.) Thus, Aubrey can win the “battle” with no bloodshed on either side.

I thought The Hundred Days was one of the better plotted books, with a clearer focus and theme. Not that there is anything wrong with the narratives which stretch over two or three books, but as a single book, this one held together well.

There are a few quotes worth mentioning. First is the reference to the Kasbah (Casbah) of Algiers. I think this calls for both a picture and a song, don’t you think?

By toufik Lerari from Nice, France - Casbah - Algiers, CC BY-SA 2.0

This is part of the palace itself. The whole compound is in disrepair, alas, although some restoration has been done.

The second comes in a discussion between the Dey’s rather disingenuous vizier and Stephen, after Stephen raises the question of the mercenary payment.

Surely, my dear sir, a man of your egregious perspicacity cannot believe these wild tales? His Highness is a most orthodox Sunnite, while the agitators in Herzegovina and those parts, of whom I have heard quite often, are violent Shiites; and they have turned to a notorious Shiite sheikh in Morocco. For them to ask the orthodox Dey to help them at this point passes belief: it is as though a band of Calvinists were to beg for the assistance of the Vatican.

While there is obviously some truth here (and the Calvinism reference is amusing), the vizier neglects to mention that supposed enemies make common cause all the time. It is the nature of politics, so to speak.

The other great line is in a discussion between Jacob and Maturin. Prior to leaving Algiers, Maturin has discovered two Irish children who were captured and enslaved. He purchases them, intending to house them in the ambassador’s home until he can arrange transportation back to Ireland. The ambassador’s wife refuses, which infuriates Maturin.

“Listen, Amos: did you ever read an author who said, ‘Never underestimate a woman’s capacity for jealousy, however illogical or inconsistent or indeed self-defeating’?”

“I do not think so: but the notion is fairly wide-spread among those who think of men and women as belonging to two different nations; and who wish to be profound.”

I have experienced too many irrationally jealous men to buy into this version of gender essentialism, and thus agree with Amos on this one.

I am almost done with these books, sadly, and will likely have to find a new series to read. I highly recommend them as literary historical fiction. O’Brian has created truly memorable characters, with an admirable depth and complexity. His moral dilemmas are also true to life - and the time in which the books are set. Also impressive is the way that his characters age throughout the books, both physically and emotionally.

Monday, January 27, 2020

The Air You Breathe by Frances de Pontes Peebles

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club. One of the things I enjoy about this club is that I end up reading interesting books that I never would have discovered on my own. The Air You Breathe is definitely one of those books I had no idea existed, and likely would never have decided to read. We had a great discussion about this book, I must say, and it was universally enjoyed by our club.

The Air You Breathe is historical(ish) fiction. I give it the qualifying “ish,” because it doesn’t particularly closely follow history, in the usual sense. Since Sir Walter Scott essentially created the genre (although you could argue that Shakespeare - or Herodotus - should get credit for that), there have been certain rules about how to do it. If an historical person is the subject (or comes into the book), that person must at least not contradict the know facts about him or her. The historical events should be reasonably accurate, at least as to the major events. It is okay to focus on fictional characters rather than the historical figures; Scott often did this. As I said, these are the usual rules, whether you agree with them or not, so when they are bent, it stands out.

So, this book is very loosely based on two historical figures, Carmen Miranda and Chavela Vargas. And when I say “loosely,” I do mean “loosely.” The book is essentially “about” a Brazilian singer (Graca, aka “Sofia Salvador”) with more than a passing resemblance to Carmen Miranda. It is told from the perspective of her former servant and then best friend Dores, who is sort of based on Chavela Vargas. Obviously, there is a huge bit of license taken here. The two of them were, in real life, not connected at all, coming from different countries (Brazil and Mexico, respectively), and different styles of music. Oh, and they were 10 years apart in age too. There are plenty of other differences. The real Carmen Miranda didn’t die of suicide at age 26 - although she did die in her 40s of a heart attack with alcohol and drugs (the Hollywood studios were thoroughly complicit in this death as with others) as factors. And the real Miranda wasn’t an heiress, exactly, either.

So, what I would instead say is that the part of the book that details Sofia Salvador’s professional trajectory hews pretty closely to the real story of Carmen Miranda. And the character of Dores is definitely patterned after that of Chavela Vargas, although the story has rather little in common with Vargas’ biography.

Having explained all that, the point of the book isn’t really to tell history, but to tell an engrossing tale of friendship, music, love, desire, and grief. And at that, the book does a good job. I found it quite the enjoyable read - in the vein of a light summer book rather than literary fiction. For the most part, the writing is good, although not exactly profound, and the story keeps one turning the pages. There is also a cast of interesting characters, although I did kind of wish a few of them had been fleshed out a little better. But, this is the consequence of the narrator - Dores - being obsessed with Graca and focusing on her throughout.

It isn’t quite accurate to describe what Graca and Dores have as a friendship, I think. Graca is not really capable of true reciprocity or love - for anyone. She has her obsession with being a star, and she turns out to be really good at it. This does in fact reflect the real story of Carmen Miranda. She too went from obscurity to being a well-respected singer in Brazil. Then, she went to Hollywood during World War II, when the US suddenly needed South American allies, and started casting Latinos as exotic and desirable characters, rather than villains with mustaches and accents. The typecasting, discrimination, and exhausting hours that the book describes are accurate as well.

As a musician, though, the scenes involving music were the ones that I enjoyed the most. The “roda” - the circular samba jam sessions - was rather like some of the jazz, blues, bluegrass, or rock oriented jams I have had the pleasure of participating in (although not on the regular scale described in the book.) The guitarist, Vinicius, who holds the band together musically and artistically, is well written, and very much of a recognizable type to any working musician. He is the guy that everyone knows is the key to the whole thing - if he (or she in many cases) leaves, the center cannot hold. And he (or she) is so devoted to the music that money or commercial considerations always take a back seat to the groove.

Likewise, any working musician can recognize Graca. She is a diva. A really talented and mesmerizing diva. But a diva nonetheless. She doesn’t want to make time to practice, but can just jump in at the last moment and nail it anyway. (Something only possible on a solo part - don’t try that if you are a rhythm section player.) Everyone in the band knows that she (or he - there are plenty of male divas too) sells the records, lands the good gigs, and draws the crowds. But they (we - I’m experienced here) also know that it is all that hard work behind the scenes that makes the diva’s act possible. Without the practice and the dedicated background artistry, a band sounds like crap, no matter how good the lead singer. As long as a band has only one diva, this works, and everyone succeeds. More than one diva, and, well, the history of music is littered with the wreckage which results.

I would also say that the relationship between Graca and Dores is fascinating. There is the initial dynamic, between servant and (young) master, that reflects the uneasy tension between children who want to be friends and the knowledge (which dates nearly from birth) of an uncrossable social gulf. Graca will always be loved by her parents and have a place to live as long as they do. But Dores, an orphan, could be abandoned to fend for herself or starve with impunity. True equality in a relationship is pretty doomed under those circumstances. Then when the two of them run away from the convent school to fend for themselves in Rio, things have to shift. After all, Dores is now the competent one in most ways, and tires of being expected to continually feed Graca’s ego.

Complicating this is Dores’ sexuality. The real life Chavela Vargas was a lesbian, while Dores is written as a lesbian-leaning bisexual, so it isn’t a perfect match. But it is clear that Dores is madly in love with Graca - obsessed with her more than with anyone else. No other relationship she has with men or women really comes close to the level of passion that she has for Graca.

Graca, on the other hand, is pretty strongly heterosexual, although her inability to form real bonds means that her sexual relationships with men are about her rather than deep bonding with another human. So this is the great unrequited love of Dores’ life, the one she obsesses over until she dies in her nineties, the one she nearly drinks herself to death over, and the one that haunts the story she tells. The author makes the relationship thoroughly believable, despite the outsized personality of Graca.

The other characters are fascinating as well. There is Nena, the servant woman who adopts Dores after her mother dies. Nena can seem harsh to Dores, but at the core of this is the reality that Dores has to learn to survive in a world in which she is disposable. (If you read the slave narratives, this was rather common - and still persists today in the cultures of vulnerable minorities around the world. Survival often depends on a superhuman ability to submerge one’s dignity and natural human responses to abuse - and so parents and others feel they have to essentially abuse their children to train them to hide their hurt and anger.) Nena, though, ends up risking her own future to see Dores get a chance to thrive.

Senhora Pimentel, Graca’s mother, is complicated. Married off at a young age to a dissipated and selfish man who wanted her money and an heir, she does her best to protect her daughter and show kindness to Dores. Her early death in childbirth is partly responsible for Graca’s self destructive behavior.

I also enjoyed “Madame Lucifer,” the mobster who becomes Graca and Dores’ protector and promoter. He is the first to recognize two key things: Graca is a world-class vocalist and entertainer, and Dores has the ambition and ruthlessness to survive in a hostile world. He sees himself in Dores, so to speak.

There are no truly simple characters in the book. Everyone is flawed in some way, and selfish in many. Even Senhor Pimentel, who is pretty dang loathsome - I mean, he rapes the servant girls as soon as they hit puberty, drinks constantly, and shows up late in the game to sponge off of Sofia Salvador - but he also acts very much in line with societal expectations. He marries for money, and tries to enable Graca to do the same. The fact that she would rather become a singer (a disreputable profession for an aristocrat!) isn’t his fault. And in his own mind, he is rescuing Graca from the clutches of the unscrupulous Dores by horning his way in as manager. He isn’t entirely wrong in his assessment of Dores, honestly. She doesn’t play by the rules - that’s a luxury for those for who wrote the rules to be in their favor. But she arguably does love Graca more than Senhor Pimentel does - loves her as a person, not as female chattel to be properly settled in life. Ultimately, Senhor Pimentel makes a fatal mistake in thinking that he can use his position as the man who legally controls Graca until she marries (and another man takes over ownership) and simply outlast Dores. But Dores refuses to be outlasted - and sees no reason to play fair either.

But I am probably revealing too much of the book at this point. The story is engrossing, the characters are memorable and compelling, and the book makes a great vacation read. I wasn’t sure I would like it when our club chose it, but it grew on me pretty quickly.

***

Our book club hosts played a loop of Carmen Miranda scenes (and played her music) during the time before our discussion. While I was familiar with Carmen Miranda, I hadn’t really seen much of anything she was in. (My wife is a different story - her knowledge of old movies and music is astonishing.) I was struck by just how electric she was. There is no doubt that she was the most interesting thing in every scene, and it was hard to look away from her face, despite the ludicrously over-the-top staging. She was one of those divas who was truly a superstar.

Just for fun, here is what is probably her most famous - or infamous - scene, “The Lady in the Tutti Frutti Hat.” The book contains essentially a description of the filming, and the other diva in the film: director Busby Berkeley. I am inclined to agree with the New York Times review of the film, in which the reviewer said, “Mr. Berkeley has some sly notions under his busby. One or two of his dance spectacles seem to stem straight from Freud.” Yeah, there is some...ahem...disturbing imagery in this scene. And also a potential source of George Lucas’ idea of the Sarlaac. You won’t be able to unsee it once you see it.

And, in contrast, here is some more authentic Samba:

***

Just for fun, here is the list of books that our book club has read. At least the ones I have read too. Most of these were read for the club, but a few were ones I read previously - those posts pre-date the club discussion - and some I read afterward, because I missed the discussion.

The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

There There by Tommy Orange

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Educated by Tara Westover

Stiff by Mary Roach

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne

Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Artemis by Andy Weir

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

The Radium Girls by Kate Moore

Thursday, November 21, 2019

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather

Source of book: I own this.

I remember reading the opening chapter of O Pioneers back in high school, and telling myself that I should read more Willa Cather. It wasn’t until a number of years later, after I moved out and started collecting books in earnest, that I got copies of both O Pioneers and My Antonia, both of which I enjoyed. (You can read my thoughts on O Pioneers on this blog - I read My Antonia years before I started blogging.)

More recently, I scored a whole bunch of (barely) used Library of America hardbacks, including three volumes which I believe contain the complete Cather. Yes, I am excited.

Having loved what I had read of hers, I was determined to take advantage of my new additions, and read some Cather regularly. My friend Darren from law school (we spent way too much time at our school conferences discussing and reading books) named Death Comes for the Archbishop as his favorite. My wife read it a few years ago, and seconded the recommendation, which was all I needed to know.

I was not disappointed. Death Comes for the Archbishop is a delightful book, with Cather’s classic gentle, nuanced, and empathetic portrayal of ordinary people. Unlike the others of her books I have read, this one starts with its characters as adults (rather than children, as in the ones above), and ends with their deaths at a ripe old age. It also is more of a series of episodes than a story with the traditional arc. The characters live their lives, and interesting vignettes and happenings are remembered. They grow and mature, but never have any one turning point or epiphany. For the most part, they are decent people, with good motives, who try to do their best, accomplish some good, and pass on to their reward.

This sounds on paper like a kind of...boring sort of story. Except it isn’t.

The story is based on the lives of two priests from France who worked in the New Mexico territory in the mid-1800s. Although the book mostly follows the history, there are some timeline changes, and a bit of artistic license. Certainly, the details are fictional, but the broad outline of the tale and the general esteem in which the two were held is accurate.

The real-life inspiration for Latour was instrumental in building the gorgeous cathedral in Santa Fe.

The book opens with a conference of cardinals in Italy, where a missionary to the New World advocates for the appointment of Bishop Jean Marie Latour to the new territory. Along with Latour comes his vicar, Joseph Vaillant. As we eventually learn through flashbacks, the two were boyhood friends who attended seminary together. This friendship is one of the loveliest things in the book. They genuinely esteem and value each other, and use their complementary strengths to make a great team.

Once the two reach New Mexico (after a series of mishaps), they work together to minister to their flock for decades, before (and even after) their retirement. They are the kind of clergy that seems hard to find these days: ministers who listen, who respect others (including Protestants and non-Christian Native Americans), and who eschew wealth in favor of service. I know they still exist, and always have - they are just hard to find right now, even in smaller churches, which often end up as little fiefdoms.

This isn’t to say that the portrayal of priests is all rosy. There are several that are pretty nefarious in their own ways. The ones who build up vast estates, often through underhanded means. There is the one who openly fathers children by many women. There are the ones who antagonized the Native Americans and got themselves killed. It’s a nuanced portrayal.

Likewise, it is sometimes difficult to believe this book is nearly 100 years old, because it lacks the overt prejudice against non-whites. Rather, it is refreshing to see all sorts - Native Americans, Mexicans, Americans, wealthy, impoverished, enslaved, and women - all portrayed as fully human, equally worthy of respect and assistance as needed, and not defined by their beliefs or ancestry. Father Latour in particular shows great respect for others - although he has little patience for grifting priests or abusive men.

Perhaps, though, the best part of the book for me was the descriptions of the American Southwest. I live in California, but I am literally next door (as far as states go) to Arizona, and not too far from New Mexico, where most of the story takes place. I have traveled to many of the places in the book, and the landscape is familiar to me. Cather not only shows that she visited these places, but that she loved them. Her depictions show a keen eye for detail - particularly color - and an appreciation of the stark beauty and extremes of the desert. Here are a few of my favorite descriptive passages:

He must have travelled through thirty miles of these conical red hills, winding his way in the narrow cracks between them, and he had begun to think that he would never see anything else. They were so exactly like one another that he seemed to be wandering in some geometric nightmare; flattened cones, they were, more the shape of Mexican ovens than haycocks--yes, exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, red as brick-dust, and naked of vegetation except for small juniper trees. And the junipers, too, were the shape of Mexican Ovens. Every conical hill was spotted with smaller cones of juniper, a uniform yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform red. The hills thrust out of the ground so thickly that they seemed to be pushing each other, elbowing each other aside, tipping each other over.

In addition to the vivid description, I love the truly poetic use of words and repetition, building the scene by sounds as well as pictures. This one too is familiar:

About a mile above the village he came upon the waterhead, a spring overhung by the sharp-leafed variety of cottonwood called water willow. All about it crowded the oven-shaped hills, -- nothing to hint of water until it rose miraculously out of the parched and thirsty sea of sand. Some subterranean stream found an outlet here, was released from darkness. The result was grass and trees and flowers and human life; household order and hearths from which the smoke of burning piñon logs rose like incense to Heaven.

For those unfamiliar with them, the Pinyon (or Piñon) Pine is where we get pine nuts from. They come in a few varieties - the singleleaf in my part of California. Father Latour isn’t exactly correct when he describes them as a kind of cedar. The junipers are closer to cedar, while the pinyon is a pine. But he is correct that the wood smells aromatic, yet delicate. It is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it - or the smell of pinyon pines after a thunderstorm. It’s magic.

Another marvelous description is of the area around Ácoma.

Ever afterward the Bishop remembered his first ride to Ácoma as his introduction to the mesa country. One thing which struck him at once was that every mesa was duplicated by a cloud mesa, like a reflection, which lay motionless above it or moved slowly up from behind it. These cloud formations seemed always to be there, however hot and blue the sky. Sometimes they were flat terraces, ledges of vapour; sometimes they were dome-shaped, or fantastic, like the tops of silvery pagodas, rising one above another, as if an oriental city lay directly behind the rock. The tables of granite set down in an empty plain were inconceivable without their attendant clouds, which were a part of them, as the smoke is part of the censer, or the foam of the wave.

Knowing the physics behind the phenomenon does nothing to diminish its grandeur. This phenomenon is common throughout the Southwest, and has caught my eye many times.

I can’t leave out this bit, on the Datura, a common poisonous (and hence medicinal) plant throughout the area - and my own state.

The mesa was absolutely naked of vegetation, but at its foot a rank plant grew conspicuously out of the sand; a plant with big white blossoms like Easter lilies. By its dark blue-green leaves, large and coarse-toothed, Father Latour recognized a species of the noxious datura. The size and luxuriance of these nightshades astonished him. They looked like great artificial plants, made of shining silk.

The descriptions of food are evocative too. Latour, a Frenchman, waxes eloquent about onion soup, which Father Vaillant is able to make to his specifications.

“Think of it, Blanchet; in all this vast country between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean, there is probably not another human being who could make a soup like this.”

“Not unless he is a Frenchman,” said Father Joseph.

“I am not deprecating your individual talent, Joseph,” the Bishop continued, “but, when one thinks of it, a soup like this is not the work of one man. It is the result of a constantly refined tradition. There are nearly a thousand years of history in this soup.”

These moments of dialogue are always a treat. Vaillant is the man of action, full of energy, even after he is crippled by a bad fall. Latour, on the other hand, is the thoughtful and philosophic sort. I love this line of his when talking to Vaillant about miracles.

“Where there is great love there are always miracles,” he said at length. “One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our own perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”

Later in the book, he remarks to a man calling the ancient stories of the Navajos primitive superstitions, that “their veneration for old customs was a quality he liked in the Indians, and that it played a great part in his own religion.”

Joseph Vaillant is a bit less patient with human foibles. One hilarious episode involves a widow of a wealthy Mexican ranchero. The property is left to her and her daughter, then to the church after their deaths. The other relatives are furious and challenge the will, claiming that the daughter isn’t really the widow’s child - she is too young. The reason this almost succeeds is that the widow refuses to admit her age. She looks young, and claims to be, well, far too young to have given birth to her own daughter. Finally, Vaillant is able to put enough pressure on her to admit, if not her real age (which we never learn), but a lower age that is at least high enough to support a claim of maternity. Afterward, Vaillant and Latour discuss it:

When they were tramping home, Father Joseph said that as for him, he would rather combat the superstitions of a whole Indian pueblo than the vanity of one white woman.

“And I would rather do almost anything than go through such a scene again,” said the Bishop with a frown. “I don’t think I ever assisted at anything so cruel.”

In contrast to this story, there is another of an enslaved woman who sneaks away from her cruel Protestant masters to pray at the Catholic church. Latour finds her there, and does the little he can to give her comfort and ease her heart - he lacks the political power to free her at that time, although the book mentions later that he found a way to do so years later when he was on firmer political standing with the American authorities.

What I found intriguing about this story was the way Latour talks about the need for a female facet to the Divine. Protestantism is a reaction against the excesses of Catholicism (and the associated political realities), so one of the things we have lost is the feminine half of the divine nature. Although I think most non-fundie Protestants would agree that God is neither male nor female, and that both human genders are equally in God’s image, in practice, we act as if God is male only, and only males truly resemble God in that sense. This is a sad loss. Here are Latour’s response.

He seemed able to feel all it meant to her to know that there was a Kind Woman in Heaven, though there were such cruel ones on earth. Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world’s hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman’s tenderness. Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.

Latour also gets that the Kingdom consists not of the rich and powerful, but by the marginalized. (And he lives like it too - very much to his credit.)

“O Sacred Heart of Mary!” she murmured by his side, and he felt how that name was food and raiment, friend and mother to her. He received the miracle in her heart into his own, saw through her eyes, knew that his poverty was as bleak as hers. When the Kingdom of Heaven had first come into the world, into a cruel world of torture and slaves and masters, He who brought it had said, “And whosoever is least among you, the same shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven.” This church was Sada’s house, and he was a servant in it.

I am left to imagine the revolutionary change in our nation and its religion if more of our “christians” felt and acted this way toward the marginalized among us - the poor, the homeless, the immigrants, the minorities. Wow. Imagine it.

There is one more exchange between Latour and Vaillant that struck me. Vaillant has been called to serve in Colorado, where the mining boom has left great need for spiritual care. Latour knows that his time of working hand in hand with his friend is ending.

“Well, we are getting older, Jean,” he said abruptly, after a short silence.

The Bishop smiled. “Ah, yes. We are not young men any more. One of these departures will be the last.”

Father Vaillant nodded. “Whenever God wills. I am ready.” He rose and began to pace the floor, addressing his friend without looking at him. “But it has not been so bad, Jean? We have done the things we used to plan to do, long ago, when we were Seminarians,-- at least some of them. To fulfil the dreams of one’s youth; that is the best that can happen to a man. No worldly success can take the place of that.”

And I guess he is right. To have fulfilled at least some of one’s dreams is a blessing - and something to be thankful for.

At the end of his life, Latour also expresses gratefulness for two things that he lived long enough to see: the abolition of slavery, and the return of the Navajos to their land.

[T]he Bishop turned to Bernard; “My son, I have lived to see two great wrongs righted; I have seen the end of black slavery, and I have seen the Navajos restored to their own country.”

For many years, Father Latour used to wonder if there would ever be an end to the Indian wars while there was one Navajo or Apache left alive. Too many traders and manufacturers made a rich profit out of that warfare; a political machine and immense capital were employed to keep it going.

That last line was startling to me. Not much has changed on that front, alas. From the Keystone Pipeline - leaking crude oil all over Native lands - to the incarceration industrial complex that makes fortunes from the imprisonment of innocent child immigrants, there is still a hell of a lot of money to be made from inflicting injustice on vulnerable human beings.

This is just a taste of the book, of course. I liked it enough that I think I will try to add Cather to my regular rotation of authors. Particularly now that I have her works in such nice hardbacks. This book wasn’t quite like either of the others I have read, but it shares her delightful writing, her deep empathy, and her eye for the details of what makes us human.

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Wednesday, March 4, 2020

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead