Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 278: Peggy Hull Deuell, Death of Carrier Described (#278)

Peggy Hull Deuell, "Death of Carrier Described" (1944) from Reporting World War II: American Journalism 1944–1946:

I know this is getting repetitious, but this is another example where I want to hear more about Peggy Hull Deuell: a war correspondent who started off by reporting on Pancho Villa, was rejected as correspondent during World War I because she was a woman, but who continued on.

Compared to her story, the story of the USS Princeton doesn't quite stand up. Or rather: we get to hear the story, both the objective what and the subjective POV of the captain telling the story of the day he lost his ship (with less than 10% loss of human life on his ship), along with Deuell's report on how the captain keeps almost being overwhelmed with emotion.

And what it leaves me with is a wish that she had interviewed everyone on that day, from the Japanese bomber whose single bomb started the fire, to the surgeon who had to amputate the scrap of a guy's leg with a sheath knife, to the guys who were just trying to put out the fire. That is, the death of a carrier sounds like a single event, with a single story; but we're so deeply in the POV of the captain that I can't help wondering what it looks like to everyone, all combined.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 272: Elizabeth Keckly, Lincoln’s Assassination (#272)

Elizabeth Keckly, "Lincoln’s Assassination" (1868) from The Civil War: The Final Year Told by Those Who Lived It:

Another record of Lincoln's assassination, this time from freed slave and dressmaker to Washington, Elizabeth Keckly. (The LoA note on this says that she was born a slave, married a free man of color, bought her and her child's freedom, and eventually separated from her husband--which is all sorts of interesting, but not anywhere in this story.)

The end is what you'd expect it to be: Lincoln shot and people astounded and grief-stricken. What's more interesting to me is the beginning, which records Lincoln alive: rehearsing for a speech, talking about his beloved pet goats, using the goats as lead-in for a discussion of political/social issues.

But again, all Lincoln stories end up with the tragedy of his death. And I wonder what the cult of Lincoln would be like without that martyrdom. Mind you, I'm fully in the cult myself: his intelligence, humanity, grace, humor, kindness, firmness--all of it combines to make him a fascinating figure for study and emulation. But again: would he have become a fat Elvis joke or a terrible reactionary or would he have gone on and retained his aura of greatness?

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 270: Sallie Brock, The Fall of Richmond (#270)

Sallie Brock, "The Fall of Richmond" (1867) from The Civil War: The Final Year Told by Those Who Lived It:

Another Civil War memorial, this time from a Southern women who witnessed the fall of Richmond. Which is one of those funny "falls" where the main damage was done by the departing Confederate army and panicked Southerners before the Union army attempted to stop the fires.

And yet Sallie Brock still describes the “Stars and Stripes” as "the ensign of our subjugation." I can't say I'm very sympathetic to Brock after that and some disparaging remarks on blacks and the Union army as "representing almost every nation on the continent of Europe."

The best part of this week's story then is LoA headnote with the unfortunately worded sentence about Brock and her husband's later life:

The couple lived and died in Brooklyn for over two decades, but both were buried in Richmond.

They died for over two decades? Like, over and over? Or is that a philosophical statement about how life is really death? Whoa, man, that's like deep.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 263: Gideon Welles, The Giant Sufferer (#263)

Gideon Welles, “The Giant Sufferer” (1865/1960) from President Lincoln Assassinated!! The Firsthand Story of the Murder, Manhunt, Trial, and Mourning:

Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles recorded his thoughts and experiences on the assassination of Lincoln; and while this was revised by him and by his son, a 1960 version of his memoirs is (supposed to be) close to the original. And that's what we have here in this new collection from the Library of America, entirely focused on this one event.

(Which, like the volumes on WWI poetry, seems like an interesting departure for them. I'm not sure I'd be interested in this book, but I know there are some Lincoln enthusiasts who would be.)

As for Welles's recollections, they are the sort that many people may recognize from their own brushes with history or any sort of trauma:

• initial confusion and denial (the messenger isn't making any sense, there's no way that Lincoln and Seward could've been both attacked);
• a mix of sharp memories ("I exchanged a few words in a whisper with Dr. V. Secretary Stanton who came almost simultaneously with me spoke in a louder tone.")...
• ...and more vague perceptions ("Several surgeons were present, at least six, I should think more.");
• and the ever-present ordinariness pressing in.

In Welles's account, that last part has to do with the struggle for political power, or at least the appearance of struggle and politicking. Did Stanton purposely not invite him to a meeting? Did he come late for real reasons or as part of a power play? Etc.

Still, if you're looking for an argument about the power of simple language to carry maximal emotional force, you could do worse than Welles's memory of Lincoln on his deathbed:

His features were calm and striking. I had never seen them appear to better advantage than for the first hour, perhaps, that I was there. After that his right eye began to swell and became discolored.

I mean, there's a moment of almost saintly sanctity: Lincoln looks even better now that he's been martyred. And then Welles punctures the moment with that swollen, discolored eye. There's an image for you.

[Note: I missed this last weekend, so I'm putting it up late, but backdating it, so I can find it more easily.]

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 258: Anonymous (A Kentucky Soldier), “Like a Sea of Blood” (#258)

Anonymous (A Kentucky Soldier), “Like a Sea of Blood” (published 1926) from The War of 1812: Writings from America’s War of Independence:

A first person account from the trenches--or rather the brestwork around New Orleans. (I don't know if that spelling is idiosyncratic or historical, since we write "breastwork" now.)

The battle of New Orleans is one part of the War of 1812 that gets wide play, possibly because it was such an American victory against long odds (the British had more men and lost a lot more); possibly because it led (eventually) to Andrew Jackson's presidency; or possibly because it's a classic example of looking back at history and thinking, "those dolts!"--which always makes us feel better today, never realizing that some future people will think we're pretty doltish ourselves--since the battle took place after the peace treaty. I've always liked that pirate Jean Lafitte took part in the defense.

(Though what if Andrew Jackson had been killed? Or merely failed to defend the city? What would a US be like without his presidency?)

This anonymous Kentucky soldier tells his experience of the battle, which wasn't much: there's a lot of shooting in the dark and some antics by American soldiers, each with their own idiosyncrasy. There's the death of one American that seems like friendly fire. There's the surrender of the British, which leads to the narrator helping a young man over the wall, giving him some water, and then being there when he dies, which is a curiously empathetic scene. I mean, and this has come up before in war reporting, how curious that one moment you can be firing at and killing people, and the next, feeling bad for a young man who dies.

Which is especially interesting considering the report ends with one British guy trying to escape and making rude gestures--and getting shot for them. So, yeah, not everyone is going to switch so quickly from firing to feeling bad for the people fired on.

Also, the "sea of blood" image isn't actually blood--it's the Britishers' red coats.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 243: Francis Scott Key, Defence of Fort M‘Henry (#243)

Francis Scott Key, "Defence of Fort M‘Henry" (1814), with an account by Roger B. Taney (1872) from The War of 1812: Writings from America’s War of Independence:

So, sometimes, these LoA stories give a glimpse behind the history: the story from before people knew how history would turn out or a view of a historical event from someone else's POV.

Today's selection doesn't really do any of that. We have Francis Scott Key's "Defence," which we know as "The Star-Spangled Banner." And sure, it's nice to see all the verses and think about people struggling through more of that before they get to see a ball-game.

After that, we get Key's friend Taney's account of how Key came up with that song. Which is almost exactly what we read in the headnote: Key goes to negotiate for the release of a friend; he ends up a temporary prisoner of the British so that they can attack Baltimore without fore-warning; Key ends up watching the bombardment of the American fort; and he is much relieved when, you know, the American flag was still there.

Which means that we get a glimpse of history almost EXACTLY as it is often told. I rarely say this, but you can give this entry a pass.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 226: Herman Melville, The Armies of the Wilderness (#226)

Herman Melville, "The Armies of the Wilderness" (1866) from The Civil War: The Final Year Told by Those Who Lived It:

In my book, Kafka still has the best writerly response to war, when he noted in his diary on August 2nd, 1914 that, “Germany has declared war on Russia. Went swimming in the afternoon." But Melville has a pretty good response too in a letter to his cousin about how much he enjoyed his visit to the Wilderness/Spotsylvania area, when that would be and was one of the bloodiest encounters of the Civil War.

(Also, he goes on to express his hopes for cousin Gansevoort" "May your sword be a terror to the despicable foe, & your name in after ages be used by Southern matrons to frighten their children by." Maybe that's a bit of war-time humor, but feel free to bring that up anytime someone laments the lack of politeness and human decency these days. How often do we hear people saying "I hope you haunt their nightmares"? Maybe we should bring that back...)

Melville's poem here tells all about the war and the battle, through some scenes (e.g., a prisoner of war being asked to point out the enemy encampments) and some bird's eye commentary on the war (e.g., so terrible that only Biblical analogies of terror suffice). Frankly, the poem doesn't do much for me, largely because of Melville's almost trance-like rhythm.

But it is an interesting historical artifact. Think of it: back in the 19th century, a man could write a poem about a war and about a battle and about blood and death. I know that the Library of American has some other collections about poetry from other wars (WWI, WWII); and that if you Google "Iraq War poetry," you'll get some hits. But really, it feels like the great moment for poetry has passed by for now; these days it is relegated to high school's tragic love affairs or elementary school's cards for Mother's Day. Let's call this the infantilization of poetry.

Inside and outside Llewyn Davis

If you want to read some interesting commentary on Inside Llewyn Davis, I suggest you check out Todd Alcott's discussion of it (starting here).

Although my mom was a folky and I grew up listening to Bob Dylan, I was never really all that knowledgeable about the folk scene or movement; as illustration of that, if I have the choice of watching This is Spinal Tap or A Mighty Wind, I'll always choose Spinal Tap. Inside Llewyn Davis seems like it's even more referential to the real folk scene than Guest's Might Wind--just Google Image search for the cover of Llewyn's album and compare it to Dave van Ronk's album Inside and you'll see how close they are. So there's lots of references that I won't get and we can argue about how close this is to the historical situation; but at the end of the day, this is also a movie. So how's it work as a movie?

Coen-ly.

I mean, take apart a Coen movie into its constituent parts and what do we find:

• a protagonist who gets pushed around by the environment and other people; a protagonist searching for home or identity (think of the Dude launched into action because his rug was ruined--the rug that "really pulled the room together"; or think of O Brother's Ulysses trying to put his family back together; of Barton Fink in a crappy hotel room staring at a picture of a beach);
• a group of secondary characters that verge on the cartoony and grotesque (an angry character in a Coen brother film is always ready to be angry, a dumb character is on the edge of being too dumb to live, etc.);
• some sort of quest, often to see or placate the Big Man/father figure (the studio director-turned-general in Barton Fink, the rich-not rich Lebowski, the mob/political boss of Miller's Crossing);
• and some dark, weird humor.

And while Llewyn Davis seems different in some ways--Llewyn is less rakish and charming than many of their damaged protagonists--it's also pretty straight-forwardly Coenly:

• Llewyn is a folk singer without a home: he floats from couch to couch, gets various boxes that people are no longer willing to hold for him; he's so homeless that he doesn't even have a grand story arc--no single quest to drive the movie;
• Lleweyn is surrounded by New York grotesques: the Columbia professoriate who are only interested in things academically, his goofy folk scene compatriots--Justin Timberlake's aching eagerness, the military folky Troy's aching sincerity and simpleness, the grasping or incompetent agent Mel (who likes funerals more than sending out records), etc.
• a series of quests around family and fatherhood: getting the cat back to the childless professors; getting the money for an abortion; learning about the child he has out there since one girlfriend didn't go through with her planned abortion; getting ancient jazzman/heroin addict/voodoo practitioner across the country; performing for big macher Bud Grossman, owner of a folk theater and kingmaker ("Gross" is big and/or disgusting, but with the first name "Bud," it's also "grows"); satisfying the older men at the Merchant Marines' union; playing for his legendary seaman dad, who has become senile; and finally going out to meet a shadowy figure who beats him up for making a scene with his wife;
• and some unexpected laughs.

What's most interesting to me in this film is how the big man role and the quests seem to fracture. Which, from a craft perspective, is an interesting choice: it keeps the story moving and changing, but it doesn't give the viewers a comfortable hook to grab on to take them through the film. And it's not like the quests lead to each other: Llewyn doesn't go meet Bud Grossman because of anything that John Goodman does. Some of the quests don't go off at all--he never goes to Akron to meet his child--and the ones he does complete go wrong as often as not--he never finds the right cat to bring back to the professors' house, he doesn't get the go ahead from the big promoter, his dad doesn't respond to his music except by shitting himself, etc.

In a way, that series of quests and failures makes this movie the most bleak of the Coen brothers films. And I think we have to ask ourselves what success would even look like for Llewyn Davis. Is folk success fame and money? Authenticity? Getting out of the business entirely? It's hard to imagine a happy ending for him--which may be why the film opens and closes with some of the same images and ends by petering out: instead of chasing after the father figure that just beat him up and left him in the alley, Llewyn merely waves him off.

(Or does he say "au revoir"--until I see you again?)

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 219: David G. Farragut,The Capture of USS Essex (#219)

David G. Farragut, "The Capture of USS Essex" (1879) from The War of 1812: Writings from America’s War of Independence:

Today's Story of the Weej is another naval adventure (of sorts) from the War of 1812, David G. Farragut was only 12 years old at the time, a young midshipman on board the USS Essex under David Porter, Jr. (Farragut's adopted father and naval sponsor). Farragut later wrote his memoir for his family (according to the headnote) and they published it in 1879, giving all the world an early glimpse of torture porn.

No, that's a little unfair: I haven't read any of his memoir; and though this section is pretty graphic in terms of the violence, it doesn't sink to pure horror tittilation. There is some bleeding out and some shot off legs and such, but there's also a lot of patriotic death-bed speeches and people jumping to their death after being mortally wounded so as to help their fellow crewmembers.

I can't really recommend this as a piece of work--rhetoric or fiction--but as a source for historical research, it is pretty interesting. Assuming, of course, that Farragut's memoir hewed closely to the historical truth.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 210: Alice Lake, Last Summer in Mississippi (#210)

Alice Lake, "Last Summer in Mississippi" (1964) from Reporting Civil Rights: American Journalism 1941–1973:

Alice Lake's "Last Summer in Mississippi" should be read as "1964 Summer" rather than "you'll never experience summer again because you're going to die." Although, now that I put it that way, this reporting about the Mississippi Freedom Project sure seems to carry that threat--both for the white volunteers and for the blacks who took part. Lake smartly looks at the whole project by examining the experience of three volunteers, using their entry into this situation as a way for all of us to get into it.

In many ways, the article moves traditionally, with some of the methods of traditional fiction. So we start in the middle of the action--with a sheriff confronting one of the volunteers--and then we rewind, hearing something about the upbringing of the volunteers.

(So, one volunteer's mother struggled with her Southern upbringing and the racism she got from her parents.)

Then we move on to their training and their actual experience helping to found a school for blacks and to register many to vote for the first time. To condense a whole summer into a 20-page article, Lake changes the level of her focus. So we might hear about one event in detail; and then zoom out sometimes to get an overview. We also get access to the participants' thoughts and feelings--though long after the fact.

Had she been scared? She shook her head. “No, I’d never known violence. No one ever threatened to do anything to me. I had no concept of things like that.”

It's an interesting demonstration of using the control and methods of fiction for non-fictional reportage.

And, overall, it leaves me with a feeling that I should be doing something more like this--volunteering to make the world better. It's a curious feeling since the story makes no bones about the troubles about this program. Not just the obvious dangers--I mean, opposition can be very motivating. But the boredom and the change of circumstances. (These white girls are not used to life in the less wealthy, more rural black families that they are stationed with.)

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 163: Clifton Johnson, The Colored Cooper (#154)

Clifton Johnson, "The Colored Cooper" (1915) from The Civil War: The Second Year Told by Those Who Lived It:

This is an interview with Joseph Lawson (born 1831), who is only identified as "The Colored Cooper" in Clifton Johnson's interview with him. Which is weird on one level--surely the guy's name should be in here somewhere?--but it seems to be the way Clifton Johnson identified his interviewees in his oral history of the Civil War, Battleground Adventures, with such titles as "The Slave Blacksmith" and "The Farmer's Son." Maybe Johnson wanted us to understand Lawson's position in society as a free black artisan and so gave us his race and occupation.

One of the big reasons why I like to talk about the Civil War and race is because of the school of congratulatory history that says that the South was simply fighting for rights in an abstract way; and that we can see this in the ways that black slaves loved their masters--or even (as the old lie goes) fought for the South. And this isn't just dead history, but connects up with the way that people today often talk about "states' rights" when what they really mean is they hold some principle higher than human health and happiness--at least, when it comes to other people's health and happiness. Do opponents of Roe v. Wade really care about states' rights or do they just not like abortion? Did defenders of DOMA really feel that the federal law should be more respected than states' rights or did they just find gay marriage to be icky? Etc.

So it gives me some pleasure when Lawson opens up his story of the battle of Fredericksburg with the note that, "As soon as the Yankees got hyar the slaves began to run away from their mistresses and masters."

But the rest of the piece is pretty much like most accounts of war from civilians caught in the crossfire: Lawson and his neighbors hid in the cellar to avoid the shelling; there are stories of narrow escape; and descriptions of the aftermath. For instance, Lawson gives the story of a doomed Federal attack that ended at a wall and how:

That wall still stands, and when there comes a rain they say the blood stains show on it even yet.

Which sounds like a mix between Civil War reportage and local color/Southern gothic fiction from the 1890s. There's actually quite a bit of war and violence here that Lawson sees and remarks on, as in his comparison of the dead men who look just like they're sleeping to the dead men who have been hit directly by shells and are scattered so finely over the battlefield that you'd never guess they once were living men. Still, by the time Johnson is gathering these oral histories, we can see how some of the story has been crafted, refined by the years, until we get some funny little remarks like--

We had rough times hyar. I don’t want any mo’ of that bumbarding in this world. I don’t want it in the next world either, if I’m ever able to git there.

--which were probably not what Lawson was thinking anytime in the 1860s, when the war was still fresh in his mind.

Library of America Story of the Week Read-Along 151: Kate Cumming, “The Nameless Dead” (#193)

Kate Cumming, “The Nameless Dead” (1866) from The Civil War: The Third Year Told by Those Who Lived It:

Today's piece is from Kate Cumming's diary, kept to record her unofficial and (later) official duties as nurse for the Confederate Army. Cumming's story does point out some new issues about the Civil War; for instance, the different responses to Florence Nightingale's work on nursing in the Crimean War: The North started the war with women nurses, while the South either kept them out of the hospitals or allowed them in on an unofficial basis (depending on the responses of the doctors). And, of course, in the way we've seen before, there's the ways in which Cumming shows some of her historical position, as when she gratefully accepts some wine to give the wounded--and, oh yes, also a black servant to help her tend to them.

But what's particularly striking to me in this piece is how Cumming comes off: as almost an obsessive altruist--an ambulance chaser who wants to get into the thick of things to make a difference. She's too upset to eat, can only think of helping people; and when she's rolling bandages, she's bothered that she's not down among the wounded men, helping them more directly. And after all that commentary on how things are going, Cumming ends her piece with a poetic and sentimental note about how nature is also crying for all the wounded and dead men, oh! Which is such a tonal shift that it feels like a late addition--like something added when she was turning her diary into a manuscript to be published.