(This review appeared in the Carbondale Nightlife, February 28-March 6, 2013, p. 14.)
David McCullough became a household name in the most unlikely way. He wrote a biography of John Adams, who was tedious on his best day. Somehow the little guy came to life in McCullough’s prose. But there’s a back story. McCullough’s great secret? He’s not a history professor; he’s a writer. He has nothing beyond a Bachelor’s degree, and that’s in literature (albeit from Yale, where he studied with Thornton Wilder, Robert Penn Warren, etc. etc.). McCullough always made his living as a writer and over the decades won every conceivable award – two Pulitzers, two National Book Awards, and The Medal of Freedom among them. All that acclaim did not add up to staggering book sales, however. Then came Adams. It’s like scoring a number one hit with a remake of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” And how do you follow that?
First McCullough cleaned off his desk and tossed the leftover research into a chronicle of the year 1776 (for those who hadn’t had quite enough Adams) and surveyed the options available to a best-selling author. Poor David. Forced to spend the next years in Paris, researching The Greater Journey. The title is drawn from a line at the end of the prologue chapter: “Great as their journey had been by sea, a greater journey had begun, as they already sensed, and from it they were to learn more, and bring back more, of infinite value to themselves and to their country than they yet knew.” (p. 24) “They” is the first batch of Americans to become expatriated to Paris in the early 1830s. There would be a half dozen more batches before the book ends around 1900. Who really cares what a bunch of backwater barbarians think about the center of the civilized world. There is a certain Tarzan in New York quality to the tale. But I discovered that I’m a backwater barbarian and this was just the primer I needed to put in order that very confusing history.
For the first time I understand the difference between the first and second empires and the first – third republics. I confess that before this book worked its magic, I was just annoyed with the image of excitable Frenchpersons rushing to the barricades for reasons only they could fathom. What I needed was the first-hand fathoming of others like me. McCullough has chosen about 50 Americans – you’ll recognize most of the names, but you won’t know their stories – and ransacked their letters and diaries for narration of the pivotal events. A dozen of these expats become the leading characters while the rest are supporting cast. Among the former we find James Fenimore Cooper, Samuel F. B. Morse, Charles Sumner, Oliver Wendell Holmes (Sr.), George P. A. Healy, Ellihu Washburne, Mary Cassatt, John Singer Sargent, and Augustus Saint-Gaudens. By the end of the book, these people will be your favorite neighbors, the ones you love to hate because they come home with such fantastic stories of sojourns abroad. Painlessly, you will understand the Cholera Epidemic of 1831, the Revolution of 1848, the Franco-Prussian War, the Paris Commune, and why on earth the French were moved to give us the Statue of Liberty. That is no small service to a barbarian tel moi.
McCullough pleads his case for the fine arts and humanities, along with humane science, by detailing, as if from within, the trials and triumphs of his Americans in Paris. I hated to see the book end. It is so beautifully written. I really need to go back to Paris. And I don’t like Paris, with its fascist-feeling uniform architecture. (I now know that was the work of a totalitarian regime the French finally overthrew. To the barricades!!!) So now I blame the vanquished for reminding me of all those murdered and exploited Algerians and Tunisians, while a handful of snooty people, without even the decency to speak English, lived it up for a century. Those bastards! But I just saw Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, and that softened me. No, more than softened, I was educated. No matter what Paris you visit, you really yearn for something you wouldn’t have appreciated until it was too late. Momentous events and memorable personages are knocking about the streets even now, but I know neither what nor whom. McCullough conveys, tantalizingly, that history happens behind our backs and the next great work of art is, quite possibly, being made down some tiny alleyway that I passed by without a thought. Well, I guess I was thinking of something that already happened instead of attending to the exciting prospects of the present moment.