An extraordinary work. I have read it through three times, and dip into it often for favorite passages. Every page has images brilliantly presented.
Sometimes there comes a crack in Time itself.
Sometimes the earth is torn by something blind.
Sometimes an image that has stood so long
It seems implanted as the polar star
Is moved against an unfathomed force
That suddenly will not have it any more.
He had no gift for life, no gift to bring
Life but his body and a cutting edge,
But he knew how to die.
Since I was begotten
My father's grown wise
But he has forgotten
The wind in the skies.
I shall not grow wise.
President Lincoln praying:
O Will of God,
I am a patient man, and I can wait
Like an old gunflint buried in the ground
While the slow years pile up like moldering leaves
Above me, underneath the rake of Time,
And turn, in time, to the dark, fruitful mold
That smells of Sangamon apples, till at last
There's no sleep left there, and the steel event
Descends to strike the live coal out of me
And light the powder that was always there.
At the end of John Brown's trial:
There was a noise of chairs scraped back in the court-room,
And that huge sigh of a crowd turning back into men.
Benet humanizes the Civil War in ways no other work I know of does. He moves effortlessly back and forth between Northern and Southern, between Southern aristocracy, bleak New England farmers, slaves, President Lincoln. He creates more than characters -- he creates living people.
This brilliant passage about John Brown is only one of many examples.
He had the shepherd's gift, but that was all.
He had no other single gift for life.
Some men are pasture Death turns back to pasture,
Some are fire-opals on that iron wrist,
Some the deep roots of wisdoms not yet born.
John Brown was none of these,
He was a stone,
A stone eroded to a cutting edge
By obstinacy, failure and cold prayers.
Discredited farmer, dubiously involved
In lawsuit after lawsuit, Shubel Morgan
Fantastic bandit of the Kansas border,
Red-handed murderer at Pottawattomie,
Cloudy apostle, whooped along to death
By those who do no violence themselves
But only buy the guns to have it done,
Sincere of course, as all fanatics are,
And with a certain minor-prophet air,
That fooled the world to thinking him half-great
When all he did consistently was fail.
JBB is not a book to be approached lightly. It deserves time and attention. But it rewards that time and attention as only those few truly great books can do.