![]() The opening chapter (of eleven, numbered in reverse for reasons that are only slowly becoming clear) is narrated by an unnamed character who is counting them, the dead, as he sees them around. And if there’s any love here, I haven’t found it yet. I’m hoping there will be some redemption in this one too, because so far the living characters, outnumbered by the dead just as poor old Lincoln is in the ‘Bardo’, are having a terrible time of it. There’s real hope of redemption-and there is love…. By comparison, that was hardly bleak at all. Not the book I’ve just finished reading, Lincoln in the Bardo, in which the grieving President keeps opening the coffin of his dead son and, invisible all around him, the dead in the cemetery try to help both him and the restless soul of the boy. I’m trying to think when I last read a book as bleak as this. ![]()
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