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A review by dyno8426
Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders
4.0
On coming across this after-life fictionalisation, I came to know that Bardo is actually an existential limbo in the Tibetan Buddhism school of thought - a suspended, transitional state between death and rebirth. So, how and what exactly does one reimagine in this existence beyond death? To begin comprehending the challenge is like estimating the magnitude of infinity or looking inside singularity. Since such things are always beyond human experience by (some) definition, probably the next thing to do is to imagine it by extrapolating human experience. And that is what George Saunders does here in this after-life. During this process, he also takes the thread of collective memory of Abraham Lincoln's little boy's death and weaves a historical fiction out of it, which goes in and out of Lincoln's state of mind, during this tragedy which history recorded sorrowfully.
Death limits and contains everything that can constitute a human life. While those who have reached Bardo have already overcome the conclusion that is death, they do not really arrive at the Bardo empty-handed. They come with the legacy of human experience and thus, do not absolve themselves from their habit of being. Now, the idea of rebirth looms as another death they fear and have to eventually bear. Like their previous life, the relinquishment of existence and lack of any idea of what comes after is enough to make the Bardo residents afraid. They are afraid and value their companionship in fear as much as they in the existence left behind. There is an obvious confusing feeling of judging this liminal existence as a blessing or a curse. While staying in the Bardo, one's connection to their actual life prolong's their existence. This makes some feel grateful since oblivion has not yet consumed them and their consciousness. Whereas others are plagued by seeing the life they left behind - what they have lost and can never get back - except only recurring memories and constant reminders of them.
This juxtaposition of suffering with pleasure strikes very similar to the human condition that we living beings are familiar with. So, not surprisingly, an existence after one's death becomes analogous to existence before if one wants to preserve that feeling of having existed. We witness the melancholy of Lincoln suffer and dealing with the tragic loss of what was clearly most precious reminder of life for him. This comment on the constant shadow of suffering which follows any source of delight conveys the frustration and sucks meaning out of life.
"Trap. Horrible trap. At one’s birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasures should be tainted by that knowledge. But hopeful dear us, we forget. Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-at-table, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath? When he is to be left out here? Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss? As before?"
Even the possibility of some respite from oblivion seems extinguished by how we see characters coping with their resigned yet only remaining existence in the Bardo. Entertaining any classic theological ideas of a higher judgment deciding the length of one's stay and the form of reincarnation one will take brings no comfort due to the imperfections that the every human condition is susceptible too.
"What would be the point? For any of us here, it is too late for any alteration of course. All is done. We are shades, immaterial, and since that judgment pertains to what we did (or did not do) in that previous (material) realm, correction is now forever beyond our means. Our work there is finished; we only await payment."
"Was it my (occasional) period of doubt? Was it that I sometimes lusted? Was it my pride, when I had resisted my lust? Was it the timidity I showed by not following my lust? Was it that I wasted my life fulfilling outward forms? Did I, in my familial affairs, commit some indiscretion, oversight, or failing that now escapes my memory? Was it my hubris (utter!) in believing that I, living there (confined by mind and body), could possibly imagine what was going to occur here? Was it some sin so far beyond my ability to comprehend it that even now I remain unaware of it, ready to commit it again? I do not know. "
Although here comes author's perspective as a saving grace and something which is conveyed by the central figure of Lincoln grappling with his guilt and sorrow - the idea of sharing this knowledge of our hopeless fate against the end which everyone dreads. The dread of leaving alone can probably be countered by living together in this fear. Understanding our fellow humans' state of mind and acknowledging this consciousness with ours crosses the metaphorical boundaries of living and dead here. It's especially in times of suffering and resulting grief do we realise their absence is what precisely defines happiness and all that we cherish in the world. This innate, inescapable category of human experience follows the most common pattern through loss of whatever we hold precious in life and is thus, recognised by all to be shared when we can.
"Strange, isn’t it? To have dedicated one’s life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one’s life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one’s labors utterly forgotten?"
"We must try to see one another in this way.
roger bevins iii
As suffering, limited beings—
hans vollman
Perennially outmatched by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.
roger bevins iii"
"These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them."
"What a pleasure. What a pleasure it was, being in there. Together. United in common purpose. In there together, yet also within one another, thereby receiving glimpses of one another’s minds, and glimpses, also, of Mr. Lincoln’s mind. How good it felt, doing this together!"
"One mass-mind, united in positive intention.
roger bevins iii
All selfish concerns (of staying, thriving, preserving one’s strength) momentarily set aside.
the reverend everly thomas
What a refreshment. hans vollman To be free of all of that.
roger bevins iii
We were normally so alone. Fighting to stay. Afraid to err.
hans vollman"
"His mind was freshly inclined toward sorrow; toward the fact that the world was full of sorrow; that everyone labored under some burden of sorrow; that all were suffering; that whatever way one took in this world, one must try to remember that all were suffering (none content; all wronged, neglected, overlooked, misunderstood), and therefore one must do what one could to lighten the load of those with whom one came into contact; that his current state of sorrow was not uniquely his, not at all, but, rather, its like had been felt, would yet be felt, by scores of others, in all times, in every time, and must not be prolonged or exaggerated, because, in this state, he could be of no help to anyone and, given that his position in the world situated him to be either of great help or great harm, it would not do to stay low, if he could help it."
There's light at the end of tunnel in this morbid, grave-seeming story. A recognition of sorrow makes us instinctively also think of that sorrow-less period which sometimes elevates even the mundane to the supreme. While it is replete with regret and guilt of things not done, it is also balanced by the beauty one was grateful enough to have experienced. This way, it obviously talks to us breathing, flesh and blood beings to be somewhat stoic and overcome grief - recognise it and even help others like Lincoln overcome grief. This is a modern work, so is also one of the successful experiments with a modern narrative structure as well. George Saunders champions the existential underdogs - that is humanity - through this one.
Death limits and contains everything that can constitute a human life. While those who have reached Bardo have already overcome the conclusion that is death, they do not really arrive at the Bardo empty-handed. They come with the legacy of human experience and thus, do not absolve themselves from their habit of being. Now, the idea of rebirth looms as another death they fear and have to eventually bear. Like their previous life, the relinquishment of existence and lack of any idea of what comes after is enough to make the Bardo residents afraid. They are afraid and value their companionship in fear as much as they in the existence left behind. There is an obvious confusing feeling of judging this liminal existence as a blessing or a curse. While staying in the Bardo, one's connection to their actual life prolong's their existence. This makes some feel grateful since oblivion has not yet consumed them and their consciousness. Whereas others are plagued by seeing the life they left behind - what they have lost and can never get back - except only recurring memories and constant reminders of them.
This juxtaposition of suffering with pleasure strikes very similar to the human condition that we living beings are familiar with. So, not surprisingly, an existence after one's death becomes analogous to existence before if one wants to preserve that feeling of having existed. We witness the melancholy of Lincoln suffer and dealing with the tragic loss of what was clearly most precious reminder of life for him. This comment on the constant shadow of suffering which follows any source of delight conveys the frustration and sucks meaning out of life.
"Trap. Horrible trap. At one’s birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasures should be tainted by that knowledge. But hopeful dear us, we forget. Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-at-table, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath? When he is to be left out here? Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss? As before?"
Even the possibility of some respite from oblivion seems extinguished by how we see characters coping with their resigned yet only remaining existence in the Bardo. Entertaining any classic theological ideas of a higher judgment deciding the length of one's stay and the form of reincarnation one will take brings no comfort due to the imperfections that the every human condition is susceptible too.
"What would be the point? For any of us here, it is too late for any alteration of course. All is done. We are shades, immaterial, and since that judgment pertains to what we did (or did not do) in that previous (material) realm, correction is now forever beyond our means. Our work there is finished; we only await payment."
"Was it my (occasional) period of doubt? Was it that I sometimes lusted? Was it my pride, when I had resisted my lust? Was it the timidity I showed by not following my lust? Was it that I wasted my life fulfilling outward forms? Did I, in my familial affairs, commit some indiscretion, oversight, or failing that now escapes my memory? Was it my hubris (utter!) in believing that I, living there (confined by mind and body), could possibly imagine what was going to occur here? Was it some sin so far beyond my ability to comprehend it that even now I remain unaware of it, ready to commit it again? I do not know. "
Although here comes author's perspective as a saving grace and something which is conveyed by the central figure of Lincoln grappling with his guilt and sorrow - the idea of sharing this knowledge of our hopeless fate against the end which everyone dreads. The dread of leaving alone can probably be countered by living together in this fear. Understanding our fellow humans' state of mind and acknowledging this consciousness with ours crosses the metaphorical boundaries of living and dead here. It's especially in times of suffering and resulting grief do we realise their absence is what precisely defines happiness and all that we cherish in the world. This innate, inescapable category of human experience follows the most common pattern through loss of whatever we hold precious in life and is thus, recognised by all to be shared when we can.
"Strange, isn’t it? To have dedicated one’s life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one’s life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one’s labors utterly forgotten?"
"We must try to see one another in this way.
roger bevins iii
As suffering, limited beings—
hans vollman
Perennially outmatched by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.
roger bevins iii"
"These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them."
"What a pleasure. What a pleasure it was, being in there. Together. United in common purpose. In there together, yet also within one another, thereby receiving glimpses of one another’s minds, and glimpses, also, of Mr. Lincoln’s mind. How good it felt, doing this together!"
"One mass-mind, united in positive intention.
roger bevins iii
All selfish concerns (of staying, thriving, preserving one’s strength) momentarily set aside.
the reverend everly thomas
What a refreshment. hans vollman To be free of all of that.
roger bevins iii
We were normally so alone. Fighting to stay. Afraid to err.
hans vollman"
"His mind was freshly inclined toward sorrow; toward the fact that the world was full of sorrow; that everyone labored under some burden of sorrow; that all were suffering; that whatever way one took in this world, one must try to remember that all were suffering (none content; all wronged, neglected, overlooked, misunderstood), and therefore one must do what one could to lighten the load of those with whom one came into contact; that his current state of sorrow was not uniquely his, not at all, but, rather, its like had been felt, would yet be felt, by scores of others, in all times, in every time, and must not be prolonged or exaggerated, because, in this state, he could be of no help to anyone and, given that his position in the world situated him to be either of great help or great harm, it would not do to stay low, if he could help it."
There's light at the end of tunnel in this morbid, grave-seeming story. A recognition of sorrow makes us instinctively also think of that sorrow-less period which sometimes elevates even the mundane to the supreme. While it is replete with regret and guilt of things not done, it is also balanced by the beauty one was grateful enough to have experienced. This way, it obviously talks to us breathing, flesh and blood beings to be somewhat stoic and overcome grief - recognise it and even help others like Lincoln overcome grief. This is a modern work, so is also one of the successful experiments with a modern narrative structure as well. George Saunders champions the existential underdogs - that is humanity - through this one.