This is not a book. It is a holy thing.
It's holy for what it says, how it says it and how well it understands it.
It is not read, it is lived. It is experienced in short bursts and set aside, so that you can close your eyes and imagine and contemplate and feel, and pay all proper homage -- as you try to grasp its enormity. I've been to Civil War cemeteries where thousands of headstones radiate in all directions, endlessly, but even that does not make me feel the accumulated weight of death and struggle and pain like this book does.
Bruce Catton felt the Civil War down to his very marrow. It percolated and boiled hot in his blood and animated his very being. It inflamed his imagination. His love for it was passionate. His rumination on it was deep and profound. His feeling for it created electricity that shot to his fingers and moved them to write beautiful words about a terrible and momentous time.
And because of that, he wrote this; this inexpressibly beautiful and moving account of horror and hope. It is one of the very greatest books I have ever had the pleasure to read.
This, my friends, is how it's done.
Trotting out superlatives for this is like someone who's too late for the party arriving with appetizers. What can I possibly add that hasn't already has been said? The book is famous, and justly so, and it's actually a relief to see that it is this good, because my elevated hopes were not only not dashed but amply fulfilled and exceeded.
Catton set a standard for popular histories that is rarely equalled (yes, I know, Mr. Shelby Foote; he is imminent). But there I am, with the superlatives I said I wouldn't attempt. I was moved, not just by the content, and not just by how beautifully it was stated, but by the fact that someone wrote this, period. I was moved by the fact that someone achieved this in a book. The achievement alone moves me.
The book opens dreamily at a celebratory ball where soldiers and their most-favored ladies danced in a makeshift, large pine-scented hall, arrayed with flags and chandeliers. (There are pencil illustrations of this ball on the Library of Congress website that match Catton's description; and seeing them makes for a haunting supplement to the reading). It was the Washington's Birthday Ball of Feb. 22, 1864. Its soldierly participants had no idea their war would drag on for another year, and this evening of finery and dance and civility was an attempt to suspend time and sublimate, if just a little, the inevitability of the savage battles soon to come, for they had no way of knowing that General Grant was about to unleash a new kind of war rarely seen in the memories of history. It would be total war. There would be no quarter, no letup, no mercy, and scorched earth, and all to the last man if necessary. Catton makes us know that very few of the men dancing on this night would long last, and that the women with whom they danced would lose them.
From there, Catton introduces leaders, battles, incidents, and issues that often seem so disparate that they shouldn't fit so smoothly together into a flowing narrative, and yet they do without pause. It is the mark of someone who knows his subject -- this war -- inside and out; who knows it so well that telling it with absolute mastery, authority, and with more than a little poetry is second nature to him. These are words written not just out of duty to scholarship but in the service of love. Catton loved his subject. And this is a love letter to it. A bittersweet love letter from someone who sees the terrible beauty in unimaginable pain and in stubbornly clutched hope.
Some might say this is a "history written by the victors" text, and certainly the book's slant is Northern. The book is, after all, largely about the trials and tribulations of the much-aggrieved Army of the Potomac. But there is balance aplenty, because Catton respects all of his combatants, and his over-arching poetry is the driving sensibility here, not how many column inches are devoted to this or that side. This is about how the war was won, by dint of a thousand cuts to all.
The Germanic-order gene in me says I am doing all wrong starting with the third of Catton's Army of the Potomac trilogy instead of starting with the first and proceeding therefrom. But I don't listen to that spoilsport anymore. Besides, I read Catton's The Civil War reduction overview primer of the war in advance so I knew my place in the order of things. I have context.
I am glad I have finally come to the Civil War, and to Catton. I will be returning to him, with hat in hand, and properly humbled.
(KevinR@Ky 2016)