I just finished the strange and un-put-downable LINCOLN IN THE BARDO, which won the Man Booker prize while I was reading it. Entirely deserving. It’s historical, biblical, Dantesque, supernatural, and just plain bizarrely unique.
It’s about the death of Lincoln’s son, a true kernel that spirals into a fable. Written like the script of a play, it’s told through a series of ghosts lamenting the lives they can’t let go, which keeps them rooted in a sort of purgatory. Lincoln suffers, and the boy is tethered to the father he loves. But it’s really about what matters most to us in life, how to live knowing it’ll end, and how to let it go. Not for the faint of heart.
I guess I must be one of the “faint of heart” because “Lincoln in the Bardo” wasn’t my cup of tea. I expected more historical facts — it was a historical novel, wasn’t it? It was a little too spooky and contrary to my religious beliefs — with all those deceased characters lingering around — for me to enjoy the book. It was just a little too strange for me.