All the synopsis writers and book reviewers seem to be in cahoots to convince the innocent reader that this book is somehow about Lincoln. What they get out of this deception is beyond me; perhaps it’s the power of name-dropping, or an attempt to anchor a largely indescribable book to something known and comprehensible. Lincoln does make an appearance, and his life and times are briefly described, but he merely provides a framework for the true characters: a collection of ghosts in denial about being dead. If there is a plot, it’s not about Lincoln’s life, but rather about these ghosts and their attempt to save the soul of a boy from eternal imprisonment in a torturous, morphing cocoon.
Secondly, to even call it a novel is more than a little misleading. The reading experience is more akin to a play, with character attributions interrupting a smooth reading process, mixed with a modern stream-of-consciousness poetry. Because of the way Saunders sets up his cast, as ghosts in various states of awareness and sanity, he can insert beautiful monologues about any kind of life and in any writing style or accent or dialect that he desires. So, read this book for its poetry and originality, but don’t let the title lead you to expect ordinary things like presidents or novels.
Book Lion 