I have often observed that if you watch films produced in the early 1990s, at first glance the world does not look so strikingly dissimilar from the one that we inhabit. Oh, there are subtle differences in automobiles, clothing and hair styles, but nothing nearly as dramatic as would stand out so starkly as it would if you were to juxtapose certain other decades such as, say, the 1990s with the 1970s, or the 1980s with the 1960s, or the 1960s with the 1940s. But, of course, there is a great glaring dimension of change that transcends it all, that is less superficial and far more central, and the only hint of it in these ‘90s films is that conspicuous in their absence in everyday life are the computers and smart phones ubiquitous today. There are cameos, indeed, of PC’s with massive CRT monitors in office environments, and primitive brick-size cell phones wielded by select actors, but these are simply portents of a future with implications that were hardly yet imagined.
The revolution in technology did not wear an iconic hat that clearly and visibly marked what has surely been as earth-shattering to the evolution of human civilization as the move to food production some twelve thousand years ago, or the advent of the Industrial Revolution two and a half centuries ago. But in the relatively brief span that elapsed between the release of two flicks in the crime heist genre—Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs in 1992 and Martin McDonagh’s Baby Driver in 2017—the world has undergone a vast change that we perhaps have yet to fully comprehend. GPS, DNA, IPOD, CPU, IPHONE, DROID, WEBCAM, WINDOWS-10, MAC-AIR, GOOGLE, FACEBOOK, CCTV, STREAMING, DVR, DRONE—these are all shorthand that shout out not only what we have gained, but most notably what we have lost in an irrevocably altered universe that on its face looks otherwise so familiar to us. In the end, some things we may never have thought were at risk—things like privacy and anonymity—have forever vanished. It feels like we have lost something else, as well, something far more critical, but we have yet to find the words to fully articulate that loss.
The plot of Richard Flanagan’s First Person: A Novel is not specifically concerned with all of that, yet it is evident in the metaphorical subtextual underscore that is only subtly revealed in the nuanced quasi-epilogue that closes out this magnificent novel. Much of the narrative is set in the early 1990s, although there is clearly a look back from the present-day that is only made manifest at its end. This is fitting because First Person was published in 2017, and Flanagan’s own first novel, Death of a River Guide, in 1994. But there is much more to it than that.
Before he wrote fiction, Flanagan was just a young Tasmanian aspiring novelist retained for $10,000 on a punishing six-week schedule to ghostwrite the memoir of John Friedrich, an infamous con-man on trial for defrauding banks of hundreds of millions of dollars. Fredrich killed himself before the work was complete, but the finished book saw posthumous publication in 1991. The subtitle of First Person—”A Novel”—is perhaps a satirical clarification of what the author is up to. This is because Flanagan’s latest work is a fictional treatment (or is it?) of precisely this episode from his own life. In this version, the protagonist is Kif Kehlmann, a young Tasmanian aspiring novelist retained for $10,000 on a punishing six-week schedule to ghostwrite the memoir of Siegfried “Ziggy” Heidl, an infamous con-man convicted of defrauding banks of hundreds of millions of dollars. This proves a challenging yet miraculous potential windfall for the poverty-stricken Kif, a struggling would-be novelist attempting to make brittle ends meet, while balancing his roles as father to a young child and husband (in a passionate but volatile relationship) to a beautiful woman, heavily pregnant with twins. Ziggy is an artful manipulator, and soon gets inside Kif’s head, as the project turns to frustration, hopelessness and foreboding. Kif comes to question his own reality, an internal brand of the kind of “gaslighting” that often confronts us in today’s political post-truth universe. In the end, Kif has been not only scarred but permanently altered by the experience, his sense of identity somehow irretrievably lost, and lost along with that has been the very world he once inhabited.
Richard Flanagan remains one of my favorite living novelists. Like all great writers of fiction, he brings much greater themes to storylines that are themselves fascinating and compelling. His epic novel of prisoners of war set to slave labor on the Burma Railway, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, was awarded the Man Booker Prize in 2014. And I consider Gould’s Book of Fish—his 2001 tragicomic tale of a hapless prisoner of an earlier day, distinguished by the author’s own unique use of magical realism—one of the finest novels yet written in the millennium. Flanagan’s latest effort demonstrates that his skill as an artist of words only continues to flourish.
The best part of First Person is in looking back on it after closing the cover. The reader cannot help but wonder which chunks of the novel represent the fictional Kif Kehlmann, and which reflect the authentic Richard Flanagan? And where in the narrative does John Friedrich end and Ziggy Heidl begin? Or vice versa? Have all four men, real and fictional, somehow merged into a single figure that is at once an amalgam of the best and worst features of the four? Most disturbing perhaps, is the harbinger that is the second to last line of the novel: “It’s coming. It’s coming.” Of course, for the author and the rest of us, we certainly know that answer: it’s already here.
Forty-four years ago this very month, as this review goes to press, Richard Nixon became the first American President to resign that office, on the heels of almost certain impeachment. Apologists then and now snort dismissively of a “second-rate burglary,” while more perspicacious observers might point out that Watergate was the least of what were certainly nothing less than high crimes and misdemeanors; that a brilliant yet amoral and often unstable Nixon brought the mechanics of a criminal syndicate to the Executive Branch, and—much worse than that—in an attempt to achieve some sort of personal glory selfishly extended a war he had long privately admitted was unwinnable, thereby needlessly sacrificing the lives of tens of thousands of American soldiers, as well as hundreds of thousands of Southeast Asian civilians and combatants. Forty-four years on, and some might argue that not only have the deep scars Nixon inflicted on the national landscape never healed, but that both his methods and his madness are currently enjoying a kind of renaissance that either signals a reverse to the remission that was once a cancer upon his Presidency, or an underscore that there is a deep well of malevolence in our national character that can never really be expunged. Of course, neither of these notions satisfies or reassures, which is precisely why we must never let Nixon’s legacy be overlooked: like it or not, Nixon forever altered America and put a terrible mark upon all of us that may have faded but will not go away.
I am reading Rick Perlstein backwards, which is less ironic than perversely logical, since the nation is itself tumbling rapidly backwards into the kind of hate and racism and division by any other name that Nixon championed so expertly in the era that he once commanded. My first read was Perlstein’s latest, from 2014: The Invisible Bridge: The Fall of Nixon and the Rise of Reagan, his splendid analysis of how it was that after Nixon went up in flames, Reagan managed to emerge from the ashes and with a shrug and an “aw, shucks” declare that there really wasn’t any fire at all. Though Reagan had unrelentingly defended everything noxious that Nixon was about, after the ignominious fall virtually all of Nixon’s political capital clung to Reagan but none of his toxicity. But by that time, the political landscape, indeed the entire nation, had been irrevocably altered by the Nixon phenomenon that had turned politics into a zero-sum game, and divided Americans into distinct groups of us vs. them, good guys vs. bad guys, patriots vs. traitors, solid citizens vs. arrogant elites. It was hardly coincidental that Nixon surveyed the universe through a similar lens that only detected black and white, that ever filtered out any and all gray areas. And by the time Nixon had finished with America—or America had finished with him—he had forever after transformed it into “Nixonland.” That is the remarkable thesis of Perlstein’s brilliant study of the 1960s, Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America, first published in 2008.
Nixon endured a forbidding childhood beset by poverty, the death of a sibling, and ever grim, unyielding parents who enforced such a rigid religious fundamentalism that it bordered on abuse. An enthusiastic but mediocre athlete, Nixon instead scored academically and distinguished himself in debate, but at his hometown Whittier College he was snubbed by the “Franklins,” a prestigious literary society comprised of members from prominent families. He responded by leading the effort to forge a rival society of “Orthogonians” for those like himself who might not otherwise get a seat at the table with the elite. This was to prove a defining moment in the life of Richard Nixon that Perlstein argues set him on an unrelenting path that would carve a cleft in America that ever clings to us like a poisonous film on the flesh of the nation that simply will not wash off.
Nixon seems to have never gotten over his rebuff by the Franklins, and the wrath that was born of that rejection fueled a resentment that he wielded like a hammer for the rest of his life. It was not simply the “us vs. them” mentality—but that was certainly part of it—but it ran much deeper and was far more vicious, because it was at root about whether or not you were “like us” or “like them,” and if you were “like them,” it meant that you were “the other,” and therefore not worthy of the same rights or the same respect we might require for ourselves. Nixon was neither the first nor the last to turn his opponents into “the other,” but he was indeed the first to successfully take that into the White House and weaponize it on a mass scale. The clarion call to the “silent majority” to stand up for the America they loved was a dog whistle to the Orthogonian hard hats that bloodied Franklin hippies on the streets of New York in 1970.
Perlstein’s book is as much a masterful history of America in the tumultuous 1960s as it is a chronicle of Nixon and how he put that indelible mark upon it, a reminder of how much those days seem like a study of an entirely different country from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, a time of great violence and radicalism that—it should not be forgotten—barely touched the vast majority of Americans who simply went about their lives anonymously in what was also a postwar economic boom in the most powerful and prosperous nation in the world. I was a youth in that era, and the truth is that more Americans listened to Pat Boone than Jimi Hendrix. Nixon knew his audience—the former, of course—and he knew how to transform them into vehement foes of the latter.
It was Nixon’s genius that he could identify these two emerging America’s and exploit the divisions there that he could actively shape, and compartments that he could adeptly construct, that would admit no shades of anything that was not an “either” or an “or.” There were the patriotic Americans who had defied economic depression and world war for a better life—only to see it put in jeopardy by unwashed longhaired cowardly druggies manipulated by communists from abroad seeking to undermine our democratic institutions; and, lazy unmotivated welfare recipients who demanded entitlements without a willingness to put in a good day’s hard work; and, most especially, violent, radical blacks who refused to be grateful for all that was being done to assist them with their seemingly endless and relentless demands. And there was now more opportunity with these same black people! There was the Republican Party, the Party of Lincoln—which had long been the not-always-reliable-friend but a friend nonetheless to African Americans against the scourge of the Southern branch of segregationist unreconstructed Democrats—who now with Nixon’s Machiavellian sleight of hand could almost silently (with a swelling cohort added to his “Silent Majority”) exploit the national Democratic Party’s embrace of Civil Rights to actively turn Republican backs on blacks and instead entice the great white backlash of the South to join their ranks. (Reagan took this baton of this “southern strategy” and skillfully ran with it under the same barely disguised cover; Trump does not bother with even a token shellacking of the ulterior motives here. And Trump doesn’t need batons: he has far more effective and not-so-subtle dog whistles. Neither Nixon nor Reagan would consort with Nazis; Trump finds good people among the crowd.)
Nixon was hardly the first politician to capitalize upon fear, upon hate, upon racism, upon xenophobia, upon a misguided fantastical nation that the very essence and identity of traditional values central to a national identity were under attack and needed to be actively defended before it was too late—but he was the first American figure of national prominence to successfully parlay this tactic into a kind of art form that drove a great and enduring and unrelenting wedge into the country that has never since been bridged, and perhaps never will be.
That Nixon wedge has long been exploited, by both Reagan and his descendants, but never so cruelly and with such baseness as it has been by Donald Trump, who not at all coincidentally was a student to all of the lessons Nixon taught, and who has associated with a lot of same villains that have been key to the rise of Nixon: Roy Cohn, Roger Ailes and Roger Stone among them. Much of the wreckage Nixon left behind was superficially paved over by Ronald Reagan, and there is no little irony to the fact that Reagan’s campaign slogan—”Let’s Make America Great Again”—has been disingenuously expropriated by Donald Trump. And Trump, it must not be forgotten, has like Nixon styled himself a great defender of “law and order,” even as it becomes increasingly clear that his administration may turn out to be the most criminally corrupt in American history.
The author wrote Nixonland nearly a decade before Trumpworld, but yet it seems to eerily presage it. Perlstein’s magisterial work may not only be the best book written about Nixon and the 1960s, but should also be required reading for anyone who wants to try to comprehend the madness that besets the nation today. Of course, Nixon was a far more clever fellow than Trump, and the Republican Party of his day was not the cult of personality of its current iteration, wagging a collective tail at the master of tax and tariff scams calculated to enrich a select plutocracy, and Nixon’s motives were more about leaving an enduring mark in the history books rather than the cheap Trumpist thrills of amassing trinkets and celebrity stardom, but nevertheless there is much of then that has come back to haunt us now. “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does thyme,” Mark Twain was once alleged to quip. We can only hope that the last stanza of that rhyme ends for Trump much as it did for Nixon, forty-four years ago this month …
Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
That is the closing passage of Abraham Lincoln’s First Inaugural. When he delivered it, March 4, 1861, seven states had already seceded from the Union, and the first shots fired in the Civil War were scarcely more than a month away. The sesquicentennial of that bloody sectional conflict has come and gone, and yet these days it often feels as if we are on the threshold of yet another civil war, one that defies geography. In June 2018, as this review goes to press, approximately forty percent of Americans support President Donald Trump and his radical “America First” agenda that is refashioning the country. More than fifty percent disapprove, but a far more chilling reality is that a sizeable segment of this second group step beyond dissatisfaction to assert that this President represents an existential threat to the Republic, its democratic institutions, and its core values. Noted presidential historian Jon Meacham—his biography of Andrew Jackson won the Pulitzer Prize—speaks with sympathy to that latter sector but strikes a note of perhaps unexpected optimism, borrowing not only the words but the enduring spirit of Lincoln for the subtitle of his most recent work, The Soul of America: The Battle for Our Better Angels.
Some Americans recall the nation’s past as a glorious progression that expanded the boundaries of liberty at home, while spending blood and treasure abroad to make the world safe for democracy and to protect human rights. Others would instead point to the incongruity of a republic founded upon principles of freedom and equality that was constructed upon a brutal foundation of African human chattel slavery and the extermination of Native Americans, a country that while championing liberty wielded military might to trample on weaker nations in wars of expansion and foreign domination. Which of these visions of American history is correct? A historian will tell you that the correct answer is neither and both. The fact is that the United States has been a centuries old work-in-progress that can claim glorious accomplishments and shameful blemishes, from a Constitution that counted black human beings as three-fifths of a person, to a war that cost hundreds of thousands of lives to free them, to an aftermath that terrorized and dehumanized them; from a national expansion that loudly asserted that the “only good Indian is a dead Indian,” to a modern mission to establish equality for all; from a nation that used gunships and artillery to take what it wanted wherever it roamed, to one that literally rescued the world from the forces of totalitarians on both ends of the globe and then helped rebuild a shattered planet upon notions of democracy, decency and human rights; from a nation that used hapless populations in the third world to fight proxy wars with little concern for what commonly was dismissed as “collateral damage,” to one that helped bring a tense and dangerous Cold War to a close without a shot being fired. This is a nation that stood consistently and courageously against the forces of darkness, even as it often fell short of its own ideals, a nation that liberated African Americans slaves shackled to plantations in the 1860s and the skeletal husks of Jews barely clinging to life in Nazi concentration camps in 1940s—that in the spring of 2018 shamelessly presided over a policy of ripping the children of desperate refugees away from their parents and warehousing them in an abandoned Walmart. Neither and both. Both and neither. There is a truth to the dichotomy that can at once spark inspiration as well as revulsion.
Jon Meacham, who makes no secret of his horror and disdain of President Trump, nevertheless brings the nuance and complexity of a skilled historian to bear in The Soul of America, juxtaposing grand achievements with shameful episodes. The struggle for equality for African Americans is front and center in much of the narrative. It was, of course, the great failure of the Founders to resolve the contradiction of human chattel slavery with a republic based upon principles of equality. Americans have frequently been praised for their ability to compromise, but some issues cannot or should not succumb to compromise. The “Three-Fifths Rule” should have been a bellwether that the union was doomed to fracture one day.
The North did not at first fight to free the slaves—that cause came later—but the South certainly went to war to perpetuate slavery, as is made manifest in the founding documents of the Confederacy. The Civil War that led to abolition at Appomattox was a terrible tragedy, but—as Meacham reminds us—perhaps even greater tragedy loomed ahead, when in the wake of Lincoln’s murder, the new President, Andrew Johnson, proved far less friendly to the cause of millions of newly freed slaves, and far more favorable to the interests of defeated ex-Confederates. Reconstruction was stymied and hopes for civil rights advanced by Radical Republicans in Congress were dashed as black codes were enacted, the Ku Klux Klan and other militant white supremacists murdered and terrorized African Americans across the defeated south, and former Confederate military and political elites came to dominate elected offices in states readmitted to the Union. Constitutional amendments guaranteeing voting rights and equality ended up as grand words on paper with little meaning on the ground. Once in the White House, Ulysses S. Grant sought to right emerging wrongs, but he proved a much poorer President than general. His successor, Rutherford B. Hayes, cut a deal to win election that ended Reconstruction and left African American rights dangling. A national reconciliation ensued that came to ignore millions of freed slaves—the human element of the central cause for the war. In a great irony, the South lost the war, but won the peace.
Decades later, in a baby step forward, Theodore Roosevelt had Booker T. Washington to lunch at the White House—which provoked such loud condemnation that he never dared to repeat it. In a larger step backwards, in that same White House, Woodrow Wilson screened the virulently racist film Birth of a Nation, and in the same era the Klan was reborn anew. T.R.’s favorite niece Eleanor defied “polite society” when, as First Lady, she brought black opera singer Marian Anderson to perform at the Lincoln Memorial, although her husband Franklin Roosevelt was too preoccupied with economic depression and war to further advance the rights of African Americans. His successor Harry Truman desegregated the United States military, but the next Chief Executive, Dwight Eisenhower, largely ignored the plight of blacks in postwar America. John F. Kennedy demonstrated far more sympathy, but put international crises first in his brief tenure, postponing real progress. After his assassination, it was Lyndon Johnson who served as unlikely agent to figuratively drive the bus on comprehensive civil rights legislation so that blacks would not ever again be forced to the backs of actual buses. JFK’s brother Robert Kennedy predicted that a black man could become President within forty years—which turned out to be only slightly off the mark when Barack Obama was inaugurated in 2009. This seemed to be a promise fulfilled, but it was his successor, Donald Trump, who famously declared in Charlottesville in 2017 that there were “very fine people on both sides,” when one of the sides—defending monuments erected to celebrate white supremacy—was represented by a legion of Nazis and Klan members waving Confederate flags. All roads lead to Charlottesville; all roads also lead back to Appomattox.
Other chapters in The Soul of America look beyond the African American struggle to triumphs in the growth of progressivism, the right to vote for women, the social and economic miracle of postwar America—as well as the ignominies of the Red Scare, the original 1930s racist and xenophobic “America First” movement, and the cancer of McCarthyism. Often evident in this is a familiar refrain of “one step forward, two steps back.” Neither and both. Both and neither. Appomattox and Charlottesville. There is much to cheer about, and much to make you flinch. A cynic could find a good deal to dwell upon, but Meacham is an eternal optimist. His thesis is that the United States remains that active work-in-progress; that despite the sometimes-disgraceful swerves to extremism, the American center always holds, that justice eventually prevails. Meacham rightly condemns that which “Trumpism” represents, but reassures us that it is not likely to persist, that “our better angels” always reassert themselves. I truly want to believe this, while I yet cannot overlook the fact that only weeks after Lincoln first bespoke that phrase, a shooting war erupted.
I love flying because it offers an extended uninterrupted opportunity to read—and there’s even a drink cart! On a recent trip out of town, I packed two books. One was a novel sent to me by its author with a request to review it; it proved unreadable. The other was a chronicle of siblings who were executed for resisting the Nazis, a fine account that was nevertheless too depressing to be my sole read for the duration. Thus, while waiting for a connecting flight at an airport in Atlanta, I spotted a bookstore and walked out with a copy of Time Travel: A History, by James Gleick, which literally consumed me for the rest of my journey.
What if I had packed different books for my trip? What if I had the option to go back and make a different selection? Or, what if—prior to departure—I could have skipped ahead and evaluated how my choices turned out? Certainly, everyone at some point questions decisions made in life and yearns for that impossible opportunity for a do-over. Rarely, of course, would we muse over such mundane matters as to which book was plucked off a shelf. The choices revisited would more likely focus upon not having another drink before picking up the car keys, not sleeping with your wife’s best friend, or not taking the rent money to the casino. The flip side of looking back, naturally, is looking ahead to the consequences: the accident, the divorce, the eviction. But as we are reminded more than once in Gleick’s marvelous existential excursion into the scientific, philosophical and literary manifestations of the concept of time travel, our lives and choices are part of an even greater chaos system than the planet’s weather, and an authentic butterfly effect governs it all. So yeah, even your pick of a paperback could somehow end up changing everything, not only for you, but for those in your orbit, perhaps all of humanity.
Of course, Gleick—who specializes in science and technology writing and is the author of Chaos: Making a New Science—is something of an expert on chaos theory, although Time Travel is far less concerned with science than it is with how notions of time run through every aspect of modern consciousness. That was not always the case, as Gleick notes in an especially fascinating focus on how that came to change, relatively recently in our history, when the advent of train transportation and by extension train schedules—together with the communications technology of the telegraph—brought standardization to clocks across a vast network. The long pre-industrial agricultural world governed almost entirely by sunrise and sunset and the phases of the moon was all at once turned upside down. Clocks were not new, of course, but until regular train travel came to depend upon rigid scheduling, there was little pressure for the universal standardization of time. It was perhaps this now omnipresent sense of time, Gleick’s account seems to suggest, that sparked the whimsy to wonder what it could be like to travel forward or backward in it.
Time Travel opens with the guy who—it turns out—virtually invented the idea: H.G. Wells. While there were, Gleick recounts, prior random references to such a thing here and there, it was The Time Machine, Well’s 1895 novel—published at a time when the potential of science and technology seemed limitless—that conceived for a wide audience the very notion that travel through time might be plausible. The impact was immeasurable. For one thing, this slim work managed to generate a kind of massive cultural paradigm shift in the way those exposed to it perceived their past and future, riding Wells’ imaginary machine in their own minds-eyes: could it be possible to revisit the past or peer into the future? (Never mind that Wells himself believed it impossible.) For another, it spawned a whole cottage industry of science fiction tales in books—and later, in film—wrapped about this topic, the bulk of which are contained in this volume’s extensive bibliography. The reader suspects that Gleick has read or watched all of these, probably more than once, as throughout the narrative he skillfully employs these literary excursions to explore the philosophical and scientific ramifications of time travel. What if you went back in time and blocked Booth from shooting Lincoln, or killed your mother, or met yourself? These all seem like “timeless” themes now (pun fully intended!), but it looks like no one asked questions like these before Wells came along. And Wells didn’t ask them either: his time machine only went forward to a far distant future of Morlocks and Eloi, and beyond that, but not into the past. It was left to his literary descendants to tap those veins.
Given Gleick’s resume, I expected more of a focus on science in this book than naval-gazing, but that’s not to say science is absent. We think of the elasticity of time in our perceptions of it—we indeed experience the same units of time quite differently during orgasm and root canal, for instance—but Einstein revealed with his theory of special relativity that in the nature of the universe time is indeed elastic. Wells may have invented the science fiction about time, but it was Einstein, just a decade later, who uncovered the science of it. In fact, Einstein shook the halls of science at its very foundation when his work showed that space and time are part of a single space-time continuum comprised of the coordinates of four dimensions. I’m hardly a physicist, but the way I usually explain this to the uninitiated is by asking the trick question: What would happen on the earth if the sun suddenly burned out? The answer, of course, is: nothing … for about 8 minutes!
Time is, though, a tricky thing. On the macro level, there is something known as the “arrow of time” which proceeds in one direction, towards the future, along with the concomitant disorder known as entropy that is a component of the second law of thermodynamics, which accounts for the asymmetry between future and past. On the quantum level, on the other hand, we cannot be certain of that: underlying laws of physics work the same going forward in time as in reverse, meaning they are time-symmetric. Most of the physics beyond this are also beyond me, but Gleick does a competent job of summarizing the thinking about this attached to the best minds out there, from Einstein to Eddington to Feynman to Hawking—to the current cutting-edge science probed by the likes of Sean Carroll—from theories of relativity to those of the multiverse, in language fully accessible to the layman.
So, does that mean time travel is possible, to the past or the future? Gleick himself seems agnostic; others not so much. Some scientists consider that hypothetical wormholes—predicted by the theory of general relativity—might create shortcuts through space-time and could thus be a potential mechanism for time travel to the future, but that remains very speculative. Few think that travel into the past, reversing the arrow of time, could ever be possible. Others believe, like Wells did, that time travel is an amusing idea, but simply impossible. And then there are those, like some champions of the multiverse, who suggest that time is passing differently but simultaneously in multiple parallel universes, which makes you wonder that if time travel was indeed a possibility, rather than moving backwards or forwards in time, might it be more interesting to instead go sideways? Perhaps the accident, the divorce, or the eviction have different outcomes elsewhere …
There’s another kind of time travel that has a more secure scientific foundation. We know that Einstein was correct about special relativity, and although we cannot directly measure the space-time continuum, phenomena predicted by it have been confirmed. Einstein noted that the speed of light in a vacuum is always the same, regardless of the speed an observer travels, because the speed of light is absolute and invariable. This means that events might occur at the same time for one observer and at different times for another observer travelling at a different speed, because rates of time run differently based upon relative motion, something called time dilation. This is where the notion comes in of a hypothetical explorer on a space ship travelling near the speed of light who spends 100,000 light years in space on a voyage to a distant star and hardly ages at all.
Our science is not nearly advanced enough to put that to a test, but recently astronaut Scott Kelly spent nearly a year in space at high-speed orbit while—as part of a focused NASA study—his twin brother Mark remained on earth, and it is believed that Scott returned to the planet 8.6 milliseconds younger than his twin. On a more sobering note, unexpected changes to Scott’s DNA have altered his gene expression so that it now appears to vary by seven percent from that of his twin, and some of these changes suggest potential harm to his biological processes, perhaps shortening his lifespan. Contrary to what was initially reported in the popular press, however, Scott and Mark are indeed still identical twins, and much further study lies ahead before definite conclusions can be reached. But it does make you think and make you wonder …
If you are, like me, a person who delights in thinking and wondering, then Time Travel by James Gleick should be near the top of your “to-be-read” list. Whether your interest is in science fact or science fiction, this fascinating book—which truly defies genre—will make an outstanding contribution to your intellectual development. That is, of course, if you can find the time to read it …
I once overheard someone snarkily characterize former FBI Director James Comey as a “mentally-challenged Boy Scout,” which roughly translates into a backhanded praise for his integrity that in the same breath harshly condemns his judgment. Some might argue that Comey wrote A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership—which is all at once a memoir, a testimonial, and a jeremiad against Trumpworld—in an attempt to prove that statement true.
Poor James Comey: a man with a lifetime of service to the nation in increasingly responsible roles, who frequently stepped in and around and through political boundaries without taint, finds himself now a disgraced outsider vilified by both ends of the political spectrum, for—of course—starkly different reasons. As he made the talk-show rounds coinciding with the book release, and pundits chewed over excerpts that styled Trump as akin to a Mafia Don, Comey was not unexpectedly subjected to every ridiculous calumny from the right, branded a “liar and a leaker,” and preposterously sketched as a clandestine Democratic mole seeking to further the interests of—of all people—Hillary Clinton! The left, on the other hand, welcomed the message but not the messenger, and the author saw himself roundly reviled not only for his outsize ego but for what was seen as embarrassing pot shots at Trump’s physical appearance that would otherwise rouse guffaws with the same audience if uttered by Bill Maher or John Oliver—or just about anyone except James Comey. It seems that Comey has left a lingering bad taste in the mouth of most Democrats, many who hold him at least partially responsible—with perhaps good reason—for the devastating election results. James Comey has found himself as a kind of man without a country.
Any decent autobiography written these days would have to include at least a dose of self-deprecatory remarks (with the exception of something written by Trump himself, of course, a man unfamiliar with authentic self-examination), but in A Higher Loyalty Comey makes a religion out of this tack, sparing the reader absolutely no detail of every case—at least in his formative years—when he failed to measure up to his own ideals. When as a boy, he and his brother are held at gun point by a home invader (who might or might not be an infamous serial rapist targeting their older sister) it is Comey who is paralyzed with fear, while his younger brother urges pursuit of their captor after he flees. In school, Comey—not yet the intimidating 6’8” giant a growth spurt later grants him—is often bullied. The reader waits in vain for that epic moment in fictional narratives when the harried victim finds the courage to confront the bully; in this case that moment never arrives. Later, as he grows stronger and more confident, he brags about his uncertain athletic prowess and finds himself acting abusive to the weaker and less confident of his schoolmates, the classic case of the bullied transformed into the bully. Looking back, he expresses shame at his behavior.
These episodes make painful reading, especially since Comey is not a very good writer. In fact, much of his book reads like it was penned by someone proficient in composing dull FBI reports and legal briefs who has just recently taken a creative writing course. But there is little doubt that these raw confessions of his own shortfalls certainly burnish his reputation for honesty and integrity. Let’s face it: only a true Boy Scout would ever willingly reveal stories like this about his own life.
Comey does find his courage later, in somewhat remarkable circumstances. But first he went on to a distinguished legal career with highlights that included a stint working for the showboating Rudy Giuliani prosecuting the Mafia in high-profile cases, a role as deputy special counsel to the Senate Whitewater Committee, and as the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, where he served as lead prosecutor for the securities fraud case against Martha Stewart. Comey pauses in the narrative, by the way, to make the point that it was lying to an FBI agent and obstruction of justice that landed Stewart a jail sentence rather than a slap on the wrist, something he urges the reader to dwell upon.
Comey’s moment comes while serving as Deputy Attorney General in the post-911 administration of George W. Bush, with an NSA domestic surveillance program sanctioning warrantless searches code-named “Stellar Wind” that was based upon dubious legal grounds. Comey’s opposition to the program found few friendly ears within the administration. With Bush’s blessing—seemingly anything was permissible in the so-called “War on Terror”—Vice President Dick Cheney led the charge to ride roughshod over concerns of the Justice Department and renew Stellar Wind. At a critical juncture, Attorney General John Ashcroft collapsed with a medical emergency. In a dramatic scene that might have been plucked out of a modern reboot of a Frank Capra flick, Comey rushed to Ashcroft’s hospital bed just in time to intercept White House Chief of Staff Andrew Card and White House counsel Alberto Gonzales, who arrived to pressure the stricken Ashcroft to sign off on the program’s renewal. Comey’s intervention saved the day and Stellar Wind was not reauthorized.
Comey had another opportunity to make an impact upon policy, this time with his opposition to torture, euphemistically rebranded as “enhanced interrogation techniques.” Comey clearly objected on both moral and legal grounds, but was unsuccessful in converting key officials to his point of view. He also found himself even more of an outsider now that Ashcroft had been replaced by Gonzales as the new Attorney General, and he eventually left government service. The reader, impressed by his principled stand, cannot help but be disappointed by his failure to protest louder and to a wider audience. On the other hand, Comey relates both of these episodes with the same kind of “Just the facts, ma’am,” dispassion as Joe Friday on Dragnet, never pausing to pat himself on the back for standing up and voicing his objections—even to the President of the United States—which again underscores his commitment to integrity. It also reminds the reader that in retrospect, Trump had no idea who he was dealing with.
After eight years in the private sector, Comey admits that he was caught by surprise when President Obama nominated him to head the FBI. Privately, he identified as Republican, had served the Bush Administration, and had not voted for Obama. In July 2013, with strong bipartisan support, he was confirmed near-unanimously by the Senate to a full ten-year term as FBI Director. As Comey reveals, he more than once found himself surprisingly humbled by the grace, candor and humility of Obama, even when called into the Oval Office because he was on the opposite side of the President on the issue of police-mandated bodycams, in the wake of a national epidemic of shooting deaths of African Americans by law enforcement. As he tells it, rather than scolding him for his public remarks, Obama calmly tried to persuade him to examine another perspective. It remains understated in the narrative, but there is a clear implication that Comey holds Obama up as the model for Chief Executive, far more favorably than Bush—and certainly Trump. The episode with the bodycams, however, also points to what comes to be a series of misjudgments by Comey when speaking out publicly on issues that the FBI Director should have known would spark controversy. It also suggests an awkward tendency to seek the spotlight precisely at the most inopportune moments.
Most Americans never heard of James Comey until the day that—following a year-long investigation into Hillary Clinton’s alleged improper use of a personal email server while Secretary of State—he took the unprecedented step of publicly announcing an FBI recommendation to the Department of Justice. With the cameras whirring, Comey advised against an indictment, arguing that “no reasonable prosecutor would bring such a case,” while yet editorializing that Clinton’s behavior was “extremely careless.” Comey’s conclusion—but more specifically his approach, which included what many viewed as gratuitous remarks—sowed further division in an already highly charged and politically polarized environment, and left a cloud over Clinton’s orbit that she could never outpace. That cloud darkened considerably when just a week before the election—in perhaps the most bombshell “October surprise” in American political history—Comey announced that the investigation would be reopened based upon newly uncovered emails on former congressman Anthony Weiner’s laptop. Although Clinton was officially cleared by Comey two days before Election Day, enough damage was done for many analysts—and the candidate herself—to conclude that Comey’s action tipped the scales to deliver a surprise win to Donald Trump. In the book, Comey painstakingly revisits his decision-making process, and pronounces his course of action in each instance—which many would deem at best naïve, and at worst reckless—as the most appropriate alternative under the circumstances. Others might reckon this Boy Scout falling far short of any merit badge for sound judgment.
Only a small slice of A Higher Loyalty is devoted to Comey’s brief tenure with Trump, who treats him as a lackey and demands a loyalty of a different sort. Given Comey’s candor thus far, and the fact that there is nothing substantial to contradict his version of events in any other venue, there is no reason to suspect Comey is being less than honest about what occurred in his private meetings with President Trump, although once more judgement—or lack thereof—is brought into focus. Clearly, Comey—suspicious of the President’s motives and skeptical of his intentions—was deeply uncomfortable sitting down with Trump absent witnesses, yet he went forward on more than one occasion, despite his misgivings. To his credit, he does ask Attorney General Jeff Sessions to block further one-on-one interactions. Out of context, Comey’s mob metaphors might seem to verge on hyperbole, but when he describes his specific interactions with the President, it is fully understandable that the man who was once integral to the prosecution of the New York Gambino crime family would note disturbing parallels sitting across the table from a man like Trump, who seems unconcerned with national interests while instead consumed with his own. And the reader cringes as Comey recounts how the President repeatedly brings up—and vehemently denies—unsubstantiated reports that he participated in “water sports” with Moscow hookers.
After much soul-searching, Comey may have given himself a pass for his public actions on the Clinton email investigation, but he hardly rested easy with its implications, confessing in testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee on May 3, 2017 that “It makes me mildly nauseous to think that we might have had some impact on the election.” This was apparently a final straw for Trump—already furious that Comey would not commit to drop an investigation into fired National Security Advisor Michael Flynn, nor publicly absolve Trump of Russian collusion in the election—who dismissed him a week later in a flamboyant move that included the public humiliation of learning that he was fired from TV screens flickering behind his audience while addressing agents at the Los Angeles Field Office. The President then went so far as to chastise Deputy Director Andrew McCabe for daring to permit Comey to fly home on government aircraft. (McCabe himself was also later fired, on the very eve of his retirement.)
Whatever cruel pleasure the President may have derived from his game show orchestration of Comey’s termination must have been short-lived. Trump’s own admission in a televised interview that he fired Comey because he would not let go of the Russia investigation only cemented suspicions of all but the most committed of the President’s disciples that there was in fact a real “there” there, prompting the appointment of Special Counsel Robert Mueller by Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein, himself a Trump-appointee. A full year of administration attempts to discredit Comey, Mueller and even Rosenstein has failed to derail the investigation, which has proved dogged and leak-proof.
There has been much buzz about Fire and Fury, Michael Wolff’s freewheeling account of the Trump White House that has been embraced by the left, even though the author has admitted to playing fast and loose with some of his facts. Wolff’s book may be more entertaining and—as has been said of Herodotus—if it’s not all true, it should be. But Comey’s book, which is often dull and is marred by poor writing, is nevertheless the more important read. For all of the many flaws—of both the author and his book—A Higher Loyalty is a testament to an old-fashioned commitment to truth and integrity that, while hardly glamorous, used to be something we Americans cared deeply for. I read it because I wanted to be convinced that Comey was telling the truth. I find myself convinced. Comey no doubt sits waiting for Mueller’s final report to vindicate him. And whether the President likes it or not, much of America waits with him.
“How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause? Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”
Those were the courageous and inspiring last words of Sophie Scholl, an idealistic twenty-one-year-old former kindergarten teacher who was executed by guillotine on February 22, 1943 for her part in distributing anti-Nazi leaflets at a Munich university. Her twenty-four-year-old brother Hans, a medic recently returned from the Russian front—who along with Sophie and a small circle of other young German intellectuals styled themselves members of the “White Rose” resistance—met the same fate that day. His final words were more succinct, perhaps less poetic than hers, but no less bold. Before he died, Hans said simply: “Long live freedom!”
It is often painful to read the contents of At the Heart of the White Rose: Letters and Diaries of Hans and Sophie Scholl, edited by Inge Jens, because we know how the story ends. But their twin stories are no less beautiful to experience through this collection of letters and random diary entries that cover several years leading up to their untimely deaths. While there are sometimes coded remarks, especially in the later period, that more starkly acknowledge their moral revulsion to pain, death, the war, and the atrocities committed in the name of the Nazi regime that filter back to them—as well as their shared responsibility to somehow counter that panoply of wickedness—much of the collection barely references politics or the greater issues and events of the time. Instead, there is an emphasis upon a shared love of art, literature and music, nature and the outdoors, intellectual musings on philosophy, and an increasingly fervent embrace of religious faith to counter the problem of evil in the world.
The Scholl family—not only Hans and Sophie, but another brother and two sisters—were cultured, well-educated, well-read, raised in a climate loyal to liberal democracy, nurtured by their father, a former major, who himself was jailed for referring to Hitler as “a scourge of God.” Hans and Sophie wrote in an era when literate people tended to write much more frequently and more copiously than is common in a twenty-first century replete with email and messaging. Letters were everything. Most of this volume contains the letters that Hans and Sophie wrote to others; we are not privy here to those received in return. They each wrote to their parents and their siblings. Hans wrote to his girlfriend Rose Nagle, and to friends back home. Sophie wrote to her oldest friend, Lisa, as well as, most poignantly, to her boyfriend Fritz Hartnagel, a soldier on the Russian front who became disillusioned by the Nazi atrocities he witnessed and fell more deeply under the spell of Sophie’s commitment to a moral center, despite the barbarity that colored their world.
Hans, a handsome iconoclast scolded by officers for wearing his hair longer than customary, plainly chafed at the kind of “order” stereotypical to German youth in the Hitler era. It is clear that his sense of duty was far less to the Fuhrer than to the mangled wounded and frostbitten unfortunates—German and Russian—that fell under his care. Likewise, Sophie—mandated for a time to perform factory service behind the lines—had far more compassion for the Russian women compelled to work at her side, and for faraway victims of Nazi aggression, than loyalty to the war effort. The quality of their collective prose is nothing less than superlative. Hans’s words are striking and impressive, anchored to an intellectual tradition, firm in conviction, articulate in expression. Yet it is Sophie, wittier than Hans, plainer in appearance, highly artistic, deeply spiritual, and consumed by the beauty of nature despite the ugliness that intrudes upon her, who truly captivates the reader. As Richard Gilman observes in the Preface: “Although one’s admiration for Hans never falters, it’s Sophie who breaks your heart.” [p.xi]
There is much more that could be said about Hans and Sophie, but the primary duty of the reviewer should be to let their own voices be heard. Here’s one from Hans:
I’m not dejected and distracted at heart, truly not. On the contrary, I can see positive values in the midst of a world of brutal negation … As for a world of illusion, I don’t give a damn for it. None of this implies a morose attitude toward others. Far from it. I try to see them as they are and make an equable impression on them, and I don’t shrink from the vilest stench or the muddiest color. They exist. Shadows exist for the sake of light, but light takes precedence. [Hans, in a letter to Rose Nagle, August 12, 1941, p.169]
And one from Sophie:
Now I’m delighting once more in the last rays of the sun and marveling at the incredible beauty of all that wasn’t created by man: the red dahlias beside the white garden gate, the tall, solemn fir trees, the tremulous, gold-draped birches whose gleaming trunks stand out against all the green and russet foliage, and the golden sunshine that intensifies the colors of each individual object, unlike the blazing summer sun, which overpowers anything else that tries to stir. It’s all so wonderfully beautiful here that I have no idea what kind of emotion my speechless heart should develop for it, because it’s too immature to take pure pleasure in it. It merely marvels and contents itself with wonder and enchantment. Isn’t it mysterious—and frightening, too, when one doesn’t know the reason—that everything should be so beautiful in spite of the terrible things that are happening? My sheer delight in all things beautiful has been invaded by … an inkling of the creator … That’s why man alone can be ugly, because he has the free will to disassociate himself from this song of praise. Nowadays one is often tempted to believe that he’ll drown the song with gunfire and curses and blasphemy. But it dawned on me last spring that he can’t, and I’ll try to take the winning side. [Sophie, in a letter to her friend Lisa, October 10, 1942, p.275-76]
Another from Hans:
The mail I get here is very irregular. I really sympathize with the Gestapo, having to decipher all those different handwritings, some of which are highly illegible, but that’s what they’re paid to do, and duty is duty, gentlemen, isn’t it! … Another batch [of casualties] arrived here yesterday from Russia … The demands on us differ from those involved in opening other people’s letters and prying around in them. I wonder if those gentlemen would be as courageous if they had to slit open dressings sodden with pus and stinking to high heaven? It might upset them, I fear. [Hans, in a letter to his parents, March 18, 1942, p.217]
And a final one from Sophie:
I’ve never, ever believed that anyone thinks it is good for a weak country to be attacked by a powerful army. Even the worst of men … won’t regard that as a good thing. The supremacy of brute force always implies that the spirit has been destroyed or at least banished from view … Oh, those lazy thinkers with their sloppy notions of life and death! Only life engenders life, or have they seen a dead woman give birth to a child? Or what about a stone, which can’t be denied a semblance of life, since it exists and has a fate of its own—have they ever seen one reproduce itself? They’ve never reflected on the absurdity of the proposition that only death engenders life, and their urge for self-preservation will lead to their self-destruction. [Sophie, in a letter to Fritz Hartnagel, October 28, 1942, p.278]
The writing quality reflected in these excerpts is typical of much of the collection. Knowing their fates, I more than once found tears in my eyes as I turned the pages, especially when I was touched by poor, doomed Sophie’s irrepressible optimism. Full disclosure: I inadvertently obtained At the Heart of the White Rose through an early reviewer’s program because I carelessly skimmed the description. I expected to receive a history of the “White Rose” movement, rather than some three hundred pages of primary sources. Still, bound to a strong obligation to read and review books that come to me via this program, I persevered. The hours I spent alone with Hans and Sophie made me so very grateful that I did.
While the German resistance movement was tiny, and the efforts of the Scholls and the White Rose hardly resulted in a single Nazi military setback, their struggle manifested an outsize moral victory. So substantial, in fact, that the final White Rose leaflet was smuggled out and millions of copies of it were dropped by Allied planes over Germany in July 1943, just months after Hans and Sophie went to the guillotine. Hans and Sophie remain martyrs to a universal cause that still resonates today, particularly in these dark times in the United States and across the globe, where the forces of tyranny seem to have reassembled once more with a chilling vigor.
Hans and Sophie were betrayed while distributing White Rose leaflets by a janitor at the university, an act that sent them to their deaths. I know nothing of this janitor in real life, but I can’t help imagining him much like some miserable, disaffected middle-aged fellow standing in the back of a populist rally here, wearing a red “Make America Great Again” cap, casting hatred and suspicion at those who are not like him, whom he holds responsible for his every failure. One passage from the leaflet that cost Hans and Sophie their lives proclaimed the critical importance of the principles of “Freedom of speech, freedom of religion and protection of the individual citizen from the arbitrary action of criminal dictator-states.” In honor of Hans and Sophie Scholl, let’s make certain their sacrifice and those principles are never forgotten. Especially today.
“The Oldest Story in the World” is the apt subtitle to the “Introduction” of Gilgamesh: A New English Version, Stephen Mitchell’s bold interpretation and commentary on The Epic of Gilgamesh. Archaeology has revealed that the eponymous Gilgamesh was an actual historic king of the Mesopotamian city state Uruk circa 2750 BCE, who later became the stuff of heroic legend. The earliest record of the five poems that form the heart of the epic were carved into Sumerian clay tablets that date back to 2100 BCE. It is indeed civilization’s oldest literary work! Because a portion of the epic recounts a flood narrative nearly identical to the one reported in Genesis, it is also the earliest reference to the Near East flood myth held in common by the later Abrahamic religions.
Gilgamesh is an episodic story, first of friendship, then of tragic loss, and finally of a quest for immortality that while ultimately unsuccessful is nevertheless instructive. When the epic opens, Gilgamesh is the great king of Uruk, partially divine yet mortal, but a cruel overlord. The gods create a wild man called Enkidu who is essentially Gilgamesh’s alter ego. Gilgamesh and Enkidu clash at first, but then reconcile and become friends that are so close they share the kind of homoerotic male bond of the beloved similar to that of Achilles and Patroclus in the Iliad, as well as David and Jonathan in the Old Testament. Eventually, the two set out on a heroic quest to defeat and kill the monster Humbaba, whom the gods put in place to guard the forest. They succeed, but in his death Humbaba curses them, which leads to the death of Enkidu. Much like Homer’s Achilles, Gilgamesh is inconsolable at the death of his friend, but rather than rage he sets out on a quest for immortality so that he will not have to one day himself face Enkidu’s fate. It is on this journey that he encounters Utnapishtim, the Mesopotamian Noah who has survived the great flood and was rewarded by the gods with an immortality that is unfortunately not available to Gilgamesh. The hero does manage to get ahold of a plant that will forestall aging, but on his way back to Uruk he loses it through carelessness to a snake, who spirits it away. As with Eve’s apple, serpents here too are vehicles for disaster.
Since there are several surviving versions of what was to become the combined epic—and because the author freely admits that he cannot read Akkadian cuneiform—Mitchell deliberately dubs this a “version” rather than a translation. His approach was to instead read multiple translations of all of the extant versions as a foundation for his own unique retelling with the intention of, as he puts it: “To re-create the ancient epic, as a contemporary poem, in the parallel universe of the English language.” [p7] Absent the expertise to judge it as a scholar might, nevertheless as a reader I felt that he has succeeded masterfully with a superb literary achievement that flows beautifully and speaks to the soul of the epic despite the distance of some four millennia to its antiquity.
But Mitchell accomplishes something else even more extraordinary with his commentary on the epic, which occupies the first third of the volume. Rather than annotations that might threaten to disrupt the rhythm of the epic itself, he first devotes some sixty pages to deconstruct the narrative and put it in proper context for the contemporary reader unfamiliar with arcane references to the ancient Mesopotamian milieu essential to a greater comprehension of Gilgamesh. Without this long introduction, I do not believe I could have appreciated my subsequent reading of the actual epic.
I am no stranger to Mitchell, famous for his often-unique translations of ancient texts. I recently read (and reviewed*) his quirky modern translation of The Iliad, which left me with mixed feelings. But then, I had read The Iliad twice before in different translations, and I have a strong familiarity with ancient Greek history and culture, something I am decidedly lacking when it comes to Gilgamesh and its roots in Sumerian and Babylonian literature. In his translation of The Iliad, Mitchell excised “Book Ten,” because there is some dispute as to whether it was really belonged to Homer. Similarly, in Gilgamesh, Mitchell omits “Tablet 12” because it too may not properly belong with the epic. I have some objection to the author’s decision with The Iliad; I lack credentials to rule one way or the other with Gilgamesh.
Like most people, I suppose, my prior experience with the Epic of Gilgamesh lays entirely with the snippets I read back in grade school that left little impression upon me. I do not know what other versions or translations of the epic might have to offer, but I not only thoroughly enjoyed Mitchell’s outstanding effort, but I feel buoyed by having gained an appreciation for a remarkable work of literature that is a creature of the very dawn of our culture. For the uninitiated, I highly recommend picking up Mitchell’s book and reading it through. I guarantee that you will not regret it.
One of the sessions that I sat in on when I attended the American Historical Association (AHA) Annual Meeting in D.C. in January 2018 was entitled “The Struggle to Commemorate Reconstruction in National Parks,” which featured former Secretary of the Interior Bruce Babbitt, as well as a number of noted historians. Panelists observed that while there are more than seventy NPS parks focused on the Civil War, there were none that explored the war’s critical aftermath until January 2017 when—in one of his final acts before leaving office—President Obama issued a proclamation that designated a site in Beaufort County, S.C. as the first National Park Service unit dedicated to the story of Reconstruction.
Perhaps no period in American history has been so utterly erased or misremembered as the Reconstruction era, that decade after the Civil War when the federal government sought to ensure that millions of African Americans, most of them former slaves, could enjoy basic civil and political rights. Just as “Lost Cause” mythology long disguised the centrality of slavery as the cause for the Civil War, supplanted by a false narrative of States’ Rights, so too did it invent a fiction of an occupied postwar south given to dangerous excess, exploited by rapacious northern “carpetbaggers,” in league with venal local “scalawags,” and hapless illiterate blacks manipulated to do their bidding and trample the rights of their former masters. That all of this is nonsense has made it a no less tenacious feature of American popular memory.
The Wars of Reconstruction: The Brief, Violent History of America’s Most Progressive Era, by Douglas R. Egerton, is a welcome addition to recent scholarship that has put the appropriate lie to these false narratives while recovering the often-heroic stories of African Americans and their white allies seeking to advance the cause of freedman against the frequent violence and brutality meted out by ex-Confederates seeking to reassert white supremacy. In the tradition of Eric Foner, whose magisterial Reconstruction: America’s Unfished Revolution 1863-1877, was among the first to expose the falsity of long-accepted interpretation, Egerton—professor of history at LeMoyne College—has crafted a well-written treatment of a pivotal era that has long languished from lack of attention and yet remains so critical to our understanding of how race continues to impact the American experience.
As a child growing up during the lunch counter boycotts and back-of-the-bus banishments of the Civil Rights era, with scenes splashed across my television set of unarmed marchers beaten by police and beset upon by dogs and water cannon, I had no idea that Alabama—where Governor George Wallace proclaimed, “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and a church bombing by white supremacists took the lives of four young children—had sent former slave Benjamin S. Turner to Congress in the 1870s. Nor did I know that Mississippi, infamous for the 1964 abduction and murder of civil rights workers, once had no less than two black United States Senators. How was that possible? What had happened? Egerton’s fine book is an excellent one-volume survey of a dramatic time of enormous hope for African Americans that proved to be all too brief, ultimately postponing efforts at equality for another century.
Reconstruction—which meant different things to different audiences at the time—was fraught with failure from the very beginning. Perhaps it only really had any kind of chance during the scant five days between Grant’s generous terms to Lee at Appomattox and Lincoln’s assassination. Lincoln, whose second term was only weeks old at his death, had been vague about postwar Reconstruction. It only seemed apparent that he favored easy terms for readmitting the states of the former Confederacy to the Union, and that he had concerns about the just treatment of the recently enslaved. But the great man was gone, and in his place was Andrew Johnson, a coarse, ex-slaveholder and Unionist Democrat from Tennessee added to the ’64 ticket to bolster Lincoln’s chances for re-election. At first, there was some concern that the new President—a rough fellow who despised plantation elites—would be too hard on the defeated south, but it soon became clear that the racist Johnson reserved most of his hatred for freed blacks and for their white “Radical Republican” allies in Congress who sought to sponsor civil equality and voting rights for African Americans. From the outset, Johnson would have none of that, blocking programs designed to educate and assist freedmen, granting blanket pardons to ex-Confederate military and political leaders, drawing down troop levels in the occupied south, and reassigning northern military commanders who were too aggressive in protecting blacks from rising southern vigilantism. Congress and the accidental President made war upon each other, and Johnson was narrowly acquitted in impeachment proceedings, but the real losers were blacks struggling to make their way in a new world where they were no longer property yet, typically lacking skills and education, faced daunting obstacles for basic survival.
In the immediate aftermath of the war there may have been an opportunity for long-term positive change, even if perhaps social equality for blacks might remain out of reach. At first, the conquered south seemed to follow Lee’s example, accepting defeat and seeking reconciliation. The “Spirit of Appomattox” kindled an optimism on both sides that was nearly extinguished with Lincoln’s death but yet still held promise, as the south seemed willing to accept whatever postwar terms the north might impose. But this moment was forever snuffed out by Johnson’s decisive embrace of ex-Confederates and palpable scorn for black aspirations.
Eggers underscores a vital point often overlooked by scholars of the era when he looks to how representation re-empowered states of the former Confederacy. The famous Three-Fifths Compromise of 1787 that led to ratification of the U.S. Constitution was to mean that millions of blacks held as chattel property nevertheless counted as three-fifths of a person, which granted the antebellum south disproportionate political power in Congress for its free, white population. The 1868 Fourteenth Amendment, extending citizenship to all, ironically increased the political power of white southerners exponentially, if only they could terrorize the black population—newly enfranchised by the 1870 Fifteenth Amendment—from exercising the right to vote. Paramilitary “White Leagues” and the Ku Klux Klan proved to be effective forces on the one hand, along with Johnson and emboldened Democrats on the other, so that readmitted former Confederate states and pardoned rebels could combine legal and extra-legal tactics to put control of these states in the hands of the very elites who led the rebellion! For example, in a remarkable turn of events, Alexander Stephens, former Vice President of the Confederate States of America, had a political rebirth as Congressman from Georgia in 1873, serving incongruously alongside blacks from other states that had once been part of the CSA. Stephens and his successors would well outlast their African American counterparts.
Optimism was rekindled when Ulysses S. Grant—a moderate of Lincoln’s ilk who was a friend of African Americans—was elected President in 1868, but much damage had already been done and Grant was no match for competing entrenched interests on all sides. Bogged down by corruption, scandal and his own gullibility, the great general proved to be a mediocre Chief Executive. And there were other forces at work that were beyond his control. Massive demilitarization followed the Civil War, and Indian wars in the west further diminished federal forces stretched thin in a south that was rapidly reasserting itself. Meanwhile, the north had grown weary of the conflict and of blacks clamoring for political rights, economic upsets proved more tangible to the postwar population, and a reconciliation that promised the nation an opportunity to move on beckoned with greater appeal than the interests of faraway ex-slaves. They were free now; what more do they want from us? The result was the mass murder of thousands of blacks in the south, as well as many of their white allies, as ex-Confederates enforced “Redemption”—the seizure of political power from northern Reconstruction forces that prevailed for a century after, and still endures in pockets of the south today. The contested election of 1876 put Rutherford B. Hayes in the White House and withdrew federal forces from the south, effectively ending Reconstruction. The controversial Confederate monuments adorning too many public squares in the south today represent a commemoration of that moment—of Redemption and the near permanent debasement of African Americans to second-class citizenship—rather than the ostensible memorial of Civil War soldiers falsely proclaimed by southern partisans.
While it may seem that all was lost, in this outstanding history Eggers reminds us that there were accomplishments. Abolitionists and the like-minded flocked to the south after the war to teach blacks to read and write, and indeed great strides were made. African Americans, often against impossible odds, learned skills that forged new generations of artisans and shopkeepers. While “sharecropping” turned multitudes of blacks into serfs that were perhaps only a new brand of slave, they never stopped hoping—if not for themselves, then for their children—that one day a promised equality would become a true reality. Eggers can also be praised for bringing the nuance and complexity requisite to modern historical scholarship to bear as he does not fail to explore the often overlooked entrenched racism of the north, where few states granted voting rights to blacks prior to the Fifteenth Amendment, and which spawned its own brand of strong resistance to social equality that also sometimes dealt violence and death to its proponents.
One of the benefits of academic conferences is the opportunity to harvest books. I picked up The Wars of Reconstruction from a publisher’s table as the AHA annual meeting wound down, and cracked the spine on train ride home. Rarely have I found a work of history both so compelling and so relevant to its own time and to our own. I highly recommend it.
The phrase “brother against brother” ever conjures up the American Civil War in popular memory, but that same expression could just as accurately be stamped upon our founding conflict, the American Revolution—except that the very real bitter division that shook the thirteen colonies during that rebellion has long been buried in a kind of historical amnesia that implies an unanimity of purpose in British North America that never actually existed. The reality was that friends and families were torn apart, with Patriots and Loyalists often inflicting horrific brutalities upon the opposing side. Recent works—such as Alan Taylor’s American Revolutions and Holger Hoock’s Scars of Independence—are gradually revealing the uncomfortable facts of the matter, long obscured by heritage myth. A new welcome addition to the historiography is The Loyal Son: The War in Ben Franklin’s House, by Daniel Mark Epstein, a sometimes brilliant, well-written reminder that just as during the Civil War, it was not only brother against brother, but father against son. During the American War of Independence, the most famous father and son at each other’s throats were the esteemed Patriot Benjamin Franklin, and his son, William Franklin, the Loyalist governor of New Jersey.
Benjamin Franklin—sometimes dubbed the “grandfather of our country” because he was so much older than Washington and the other Founders—was a remarkable self-made polymath who throughout his long life was printer, author, scientist, inventor, statesman and so much more: a truly iconic figure in his day on both sides of the Atlantic. Due to his pivotal role in both the Revolution and the birth of the Republic, Franklin has received much attention in the literature, including the widely acclaimed biography by Walter Isaacson that I read some years ago. Yet, his son William—also a highly accomplished man who for decades was nearly inseparable from his father—rarely earns little more than a footnote in tales from the life of his more famous forebear. In The Loyal Son, Daniel Mark Epstein seeks to right this wrong, not only by rescuing William from the anonymity where history has cast him, but also by placing him in the proper context for his time and place, an often overlooked milieu where there was hardly a consensus for revolution, and vast numbers in the population remained loyal to the British crown. It just so happened that William Franklin was one of them.
Epstein, while not a trained historian, is something of a polymath himself: poet, dramatist and biographer. Despite a lack of scholarly credentials, he has managed to turn out what is both an outstanding history and dual-biography on a number of levels, not least in that he brings a fresh perspective to the years leading up to the American Revolution, and deftly does so through the eyes and experience of two notable men who end up on opposite sides of the divide when conflict breaks out. His skill as a writer translates into an artful prose that is often lacking in the works of more distinguished historians. As such, in a book that runs just under four hundred pages and covers not only the lives of its subjects but the grander themes of the day, the pace never slows and there are virtually no dull moments.
William Franklin is, of course, the title character in The Loyal Son—a title that is a clever but also a tragic play on words. In the preface, Epstein wistfully imagines the identity of William’s mother and the circumstances of his birth, but admits that the facts of the matter are stubbornly unknown. What is known is that the young Benjamin Franklin was father to an illegitimate son with a lady who has been lost to history, a secret kept that has never been revealed. Franklin brought this infant to Deborah Read, the woman who became his common-law wife (they were never officially married, for complicated reasons), and she raised him as her own. But William Franklin’s life was defined far more consequentially by his relationship with his father. As a young man, he distinguished himself in the military, but then returned from war to engage in almost side-by-side endeavors with his father for decades to come. Once Benjamin had made his fortune—his Poor Richard’s Almanack had much to do with that—he largely retired from business in favor of scientific and scholarly pursuits, often eagerly accompanied by William, who served as aide and confidante. Seemingly incongruous for the great Patriot, the elder Franklin spent much of his life living abroad, both in England before the Revolution, and later in France, representing the new nation diplomatically. William accompanied his father to England for a sojourn that was to last many years, establishing key contacts that would lead to his selection as royal governor of New Jersey.
This eminent role was subsequently to have fateful consequences, as events elsewhere in the colonies and friction with the mother country deeply radicalized his father, while he was yet still living abroad. In a remarkable coincidence of timing, Benjamin returned from England on the very eve of the Revolution, immediately staking out a leading role in the developing rebellion even as William remained a moderate but firm voice against separation. Epstein here masterfully explores a topic rarely probed: how the renowned Benjamin Franklin is yet at this stage eyed quite skeptically by fellow patriots, who hold him in great suspicion for both his many years of residence in London, and as father to a stubbornly loyal governor. As it is, both Franklins prove stubborn to their diametrically opposed convictions, which—despite their lifelong close bond—drives them permanently apart.
Benjamin Franklin’s prominence in the Revolution and its aftermath are well-known; William’s own woeful story is rarely told. While all the other loyal governors flee the colonies, William doggedly remains in office, attempting to strike some kind of middle course that does not seek conflict with the rebels yet adamantly resists independence. The center, of course, could not hold. The forces of rebellion seized the reins of power, atrocities were committed on each side—including even such medieval punishments as drawing and quartering—and treason remained in the eye of the beholder. Ousted from authority, the governor was at first treated gently, likely because of his famous father, but a series of events and William’s own devious efforts to secretly abet the Loyalist cause eventually relegated him to the worst sort of prison, where he languished for months in truly deplorable conditions. His British-born wife, whom Benjamin and the rest of the family loved and cherished in the preceding years, fell into ill health in isolation, separated from her husband. William was refused permission to visit her on her death bed, even after beseeching George Washington, a one-time friend from bygone days.
And where was Benjamin while his son suffered so? He was working for the cause of Revolution, on both sides of the Atlantic, with William’s own son—Temple—in tow, in the same role of aide and confidante that William once held, long before. It makes the reader wince to see Benjamin abandon his son to an awful fate—emaciated, teeth falling out, rats crawling on his bedding in a drafty cell—while the great Patriot is honored at home and abroad. The author argues that it under the circumstances it would have been dangerous for Benjamin to intercede directly on behalf of his son, while suggesting circumstantial evidence exists that attempts were made behind the scenes, but all of this rings of excuses all too flimsy. Ben had once been closer to his son than any other human being; now he had so hardened his heart that even a token of mercy was out of the question. It is especially poignant that William seems to have never given up his love for his father, nor the hope that one day their fractured relationship would be mended. Sadly, it was not to be. Safe in England after the war, William sought reconciliation that even then Benjamin spurned.
Benjamin Franklin was a man who was a friend to many and seemed, unlike many of his fellow Founders, always given to the best of motivations. But he was not the finest family man. He failed to inoculate his first son with Deborah Read for smallpox (although, notably, William had been vaccinated), and the boy died of the disease, a scourge of the day. Benjamin lived for decades away from Deborah, who longed for his return but was ever rebuffed, even after she was disabled by stroke. She died heartsick, without seeing him again, all while he dallied with a host of women in the halls of Europe. Despite his close relationship with William, his very wealthy father kept an ongoing tab of debt accumulated by the son in expenses given to raising him and to his education, a debt he ever dangled before him, a debt that should never have been assessed. During the war, William might very well have died in prison, and his wife did perish, far from his side; Ben did nothing for either of them. And in the tumult of Revolution, Benjamin drove a wedge between William and the whole of the rest of the family, including his own son, Temple, although the break with the latter was to heal, unlike the one with his father. That bond remained severed. Forever.
William was a prominent Loyalist with a famous name and a famous father, but he was hardly alone: some estimates of Loyalists run to a half million, or twenty percent of the white population of the colonies. Most of these Tories, like William, were no more or less honorable individuals than the Patriots they resisted. But they found themselves on the losing side. Some were murdered, others imprisoned, and the bulk of the survivors lost much of their property and were permanently driven out of their homes. Most of them died in exile. Until recently, their collective stories have long been ignored. This fine book takes another step towards resurrecting these lives for a modern audience that hardly knows they ever lived.
If there is a fault to The Loyal Son, it is that while notes are included, those notes could have much more depth. But perhaps that is a quibble, and certainly could be beefed up in a future edition. More importantly, this is a very well-written work that makes a significant contribution to studies of the Revolutionary era. I would highly recommend this book to every student of American history.
It was something of a Greek tragedy: A man of humble origins seeking his fortune stumbles again and again, but then the advent of a great war plucks him from obscurity and he gains heroic renown as the architect of magnificent battlefield victories, which in peacetime catapults him to the pinnacle of authority, as ruler of the land. But he dares to flirt with the hubris that his talent as a military commander will endow him with the sagacity to govern, which it surely does not. Tarnished by scandal, he abandons the ship of state to embark instead upon a grand journey across the globe, all the while plotting a return to power, which upon his homecoming is just within his grasp before it slips away forever. He then consoles himself with a lavish private life, amassing great riches, but is bilked by a charlatan, loses everything, and is reduced to abject poverty. Just then, when he is at his lowest ebb, the great hero suffers still another blow, as he is struck down by an illness with no cure. But he perseveres through many months of terrible suffering, penning a magnificent epic that he completes just before his death which restores his reputation and rescues his family from privation. His funeral is a national event, and his body is later entombed in a grand mausoleum that serves as a landmark for many generations to come.
That great hero was Ulysses S. Grant, and who could be better suited to resurrect his significance for a modern audience than Ron Chernow, author of acclaimed biographies of Hamilton and Washington? Chernow largely succeeds in this superbly written, glorious treatment of Grant’s life that is flawed only in its sometime lack of objectivity for its subject. Those who have read Chernow’s magisterial Hamilton will be encouraged to know that while this one is no less brilliant, it is a much more fast-moving narrative, not bogged down by the minutiae that often made that earlier, distinguished yet wordy tome slow-going. Still, at nearly a thousand pages, Grant, while hardly a brick, nevertheless remains quite the commitment.
In his time, Grant was the most famous man in America and nearly as celebrated abroad. He was considered by many to be not only one of the greatest generals of his era, but of all of history. He was praised almost equally for his prowess in battle as he was for his magnanimity to the forces of the defeated. In the aftermath of the Civil War and Lincoln’s murder, he stood at once as both a symbol of reconciliation with the conquered south, and a savior for the millions of formerly enslaved left to the mercy—and frequent brutality—of their former masters. With Lincoln dead and the postwar power of Reconstruction in the hands of the accidental President Andrew Johnson—whose hatred (and envy!) of southern white elites was matched only by his loathing of newly emancipated blacks—the entire nation, including the defeated south, looked to Grant as Lincoln’s authentic descendant as a moderate dedicated to reconciliation and the rebuilding of a fractured nation. A Congress controlled by the Radical Republican wing went to war with Johnson, who at first seemed hell-bent on punishing the former rebels—in opposition to the spirit of Appomattox inspired by Lincoln and decreed by Grant—but later swung to a position that was nearly diametrically opposed, championing the restoration of political privileges for ex-Confederates while almost gleefully trampling upon rights newly granted to formerly enslaved African Americans. Johnson barely survived impeachment, but his political career was over. Grant was the anointed, and soon the general who had beaten Robert E. Lee and saved the union—a man who had not that long before been forced out of the peacetime army for alcoholism and had endured such failure in private life that he had been reduced to working as a clerk in his father’s store—was the President of the United States.
So why is it that a hundred years later, when I was studying history in grade school, did Grant barely earn a mention beyond the requisite reference to Appomattox? How did someone so famous and so significant become so overlooked? It turns out that this has a lot more to do with the staying power of the south’s “Lost Cause” myth—once again resurgent in right-wing politics—than in Grant’s actual legacy.
Modern scholarship has debunked every aspect of the Lost Cause mythology, an ahistorical fiction devised by postwar Confederate political and military elites to supplant history with a make-believe heritage that falsely denies the centrality of slavery to the Civil War, and posits that the south bravely fought for a glorious cause with far better generals, but only met defeat due to prodigious northern resources and an overwhelming number of bluecoats. It also holds that Reconstruction was an oppressive period dominated by rapacious northern carpetbaggers who pillaged the defeated south, and saw coarse, uneducated blacks herded to polling places to serve as tools of northern interests to maintain political control over a conquered people. Grant, as a key player in the conflict and its aftermath, naturally figures in much of this myth-making and suffers as the result. Chernow’s Grant seeks to set the record straight.
In fact, both sides had an excess of bad generals and a dearth of competent ones, but—to Lincoln’s great chagrin—most eyes were focused on the eastern theater, where a series of mediocre Union generals were derailed by the gifted Robert E. Lee and his lieutenants. But in the west, there were far more talented generals, most notably Grant, an understated strategic genius who assembled a string of victories. The same weekend that Meade famously defeated Lee at Gettysburg, Grant delivered what was a far more significant, decisive blow to the south at Vicksburg in a brilliant campaign studied by military strategists for decades to follow. And then Grant came east, assuming control of all Union forces. The Lost Cause narrative casts Grant as “the butcher,” hurling blue lives senselessly into rebel lines, but the reality was that Grant had a grand strategy to defeat Lee that never wavered, and the result was Appomattox. Renowned historian Gary Gallagher rightly praises Lee as perhaps the finest field general of the war, but credits Grant as its greatest soldier.
There is nothing new in Chernow’s bold account of Grant’s war years—which closely mirrors the current scholarly consensus—but his fast-paced narrative skillfully restores to life the drama of an often rumpled but rarely ruffled hero with a preternaturally quiet confidence who could frequently see the war through the eyes of his opponents and turn that advantage into repeated triumphs. Chernow starts with the young Ulysses, rescued from his dysfunctional family by West Point and the Mexican War, and rescued once more by his love for Julia, a plain, cross-eyed, slaveowner’s daughter whom Grant is smitten by. When he is separated from Julia, he drinks, and drink is his downfall. Chernow treats Grant’s alcoholism more carefully and clinically than most biographers. Unlike most alcohol abusers, Grant was neither a daily nor a binge drinker, but rather someone incapable of a single glass of spirits without getting falling-down drunk. This handicap, in an age when people commonly drank to great excess, was a calamity for Grant that forced him out of the service early in his career and hounded his reputation for the rest of his life, although it seems that he rarely drank at all.
Grant appears to have been extremely skilled in three areas: riding horses, commanding armies, and—which was not evident until near the end of his life—literary endeavors. In most other pursuits, he was mediocre or failing, and that is how the war found him, just barely scraping by. He proved to be an impressive commander, but most superiors dismissed him or plotted to remove him, except for a scant few that included, most notably, Abraham Lincoln, who wisely observed that unlike virtually all of his peers Grant not only never gave up, but always went after a retreating enemy. Grant was to become Lincoln’s general, and Lincoln let him win the war. Chernow’s Grant is another addition to the recent scholarship that has restored Grant to his rightful place as a military genius, a man who in his time was favorably compared to Napoleon and Caesar.
After the war, Grant shielded Lee and others from persecution by a north driven vengeful by Lincoln’s assassination, but never wavered in his support of freed slaves cast adrift by emancipation to an uncertain future. When Grant became President, after Johnson had derailed key elements of Reconstruction, it was Grant who used the power of the White House to protect blacks from waves of murder and terror by southern whites dedicated not only to denying them political rights but to reducing them to a new kind of servile status. It was Grant’s ultimate failure in this enterprise—in a tenure dominated by chaos and scandal—that contributed to the failure of Reconstruction. Throughout the south, ex-Confederate “redeemers” brutally terrorized blacks into submission as they recaptured control of state governments and institutionalized what came to be called Jim Crow. Actual history was sanitized, even erased, and a fictional Lost Cause version of the era came to falsely dominate the historiography for more than a century. Modern scholarship has disclosed the truth about Reconstruction, and Chernow’s work successfully restores Grant to his central role in it.
If there is a fault, it is that the author clearly admires his subject just a bit too much. Grant’s military record in the war was blemished by his 1862 issue of General Order 11, which expelled Jews—suspected of war profiteering—from his military district. While Chernow rightly condemns this egregious action, he makes excuses for Grant’s decision that feel just a bit thin. And Chernow desperately wants us to revisit Grant’s presidency—which most rank poorly—with a far more favorable eye. But it is the author’s own careful chronicle as a meticulous historian that makes for the most compelling quarrel with his own thesis in this regard. While the virulently racist Andrew Johnson certainly sought to sever Reconstruction at its roots, it seems eminently clear from Chernow’s account that Reconstruction actually succumbed to a kind of death of a thousand cuts during Grant’s two terms in the White House.
That was certainly not his intent: Grant courageously went to war with the original incarnation of the Ku Klux Klan and stood as protector-in-chief for terrorized blacks targeted by the Klan and other kindred groups, who sought “redemption” by restoring government and society to unreconstructed whites who adamantly refused to respect the rights of the formerly enslaved, at the ballot box and beyond. In this, he scored some early success, but in the long run it seems clear that this cause—and Grant himself—was defeated by his apparent lack of acumen for executive office. Out of his element, he struggled to navigate Washington politics. Himself utterly incorruptible, he was a terrible judge of people, and with few exceptions managed to surround himself with the dishonest and the incompetent. A brilliant mind in military matters turned out not to translate well into matters of civilian governance, as he managed to mimic the worst attributes of several unsuccessful future presidents. Like Hoover, he sometimes clung to ideology over practicality. Like Carter, he frequently agonized and vacillated. But, most damaging, like G.W. Bush, he felt an obligation to ever be the decision-maker, even when he was the least informed and least qualified to do so. The result were two chaotic terms that rode upon his personal popularity but were repeatedly marked by an inconsistency in approach and execution that ultimately destroyed nearly everything he sought to achieve.
A weary Grant, worn down and frustrated by the burdens of eight years in office, was nevertheless widely celebrated as he travelled around the world. Still, he yearned for a return to the White House. That was not to be, but much worse disappointment was to follow. As easily hoodwinked by the corrupt out of office as he was while in power, he entrusted a swindler with his fortune and lost everything. He then developed a painful, lingering throat cancer that physically crippled him while he heroically held on to write his memoirs, a great literary achievement that was such a success that its sales after his death restored his family from poverty and renewed his own reputation.
For all his flaws, Ulysses S. Grant was a great hero and the nation owes his legacy a great debt long left unpaid. Perhaps second only to Lincoln, Grant led the effort to crush the rebellion, save the Union, and end human chattel slavery. Without him, there might be no United States today. Chernow’s Grant is a remarkable achievement. It deserves to be read by every American.
NOTE: This review is now available for listening or download as a Podcast: