MANY a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish’d face, Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust of a vanish’d race. II. Raving politics, never at rest—as this poor earth’s pale history runs,— What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns? III. Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truthless violence mourn’d by the Wise, Thousands of voices drowning his own in a popular torrent of lies upon lies; IV. Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet, Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause, trumpets of victory, groans of defeat; V. Innocence seethed in her mother’s milk, and Charity setting the martyr aflame; Thraldom who walks with the banner of Freedom, and recks not to ruin a realm in her name. VI. Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of doubts that darken the schools; Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, follow’d up by her vassal legion of fools; VII. Trade flying over a thousand seas with her spice and her vintage, her silk and her corn; Desolate offing, sailorless harbours, famishing populace, wharves forlorn; VIII. Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise; gloom of the evening, Life at a close; Pleasure who flaunts on her wide downway with her flying robe and her poison’d rose; IX. Pain, that has crawl’d from the corpse of Pleasure, a worm which writhes all day, and at night Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and stings him back to the curse of the light; X. Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots; honest Poverty, bare to the bone; Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty; Flattery gilding the rift in a throne; XI. Fame blowing out from her golden trumpet a jubilant challenge to Time and to Fate; Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on all the laurel’d graves of the Great; XII. Love for the maiden, crown’d with marriage, no regrets for aught that has been, Household happiness, gracious children, debtless competence, golden mean; XIII. National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy spites of the village spire; Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows that are snapt in a moment of fire; XIV. He that has lived for the lust of the minute, and died in the doing it, flesh without mind; He that has nail’d all flesh to the Cross, till Self died out in the love of his kind; XV. Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter, and all these old revolutions of earth; All new-old revolutions of Empire—change of the tide—what is all of it worth? XVI. What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, varying voices of prayer? All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy with all that is fair? XVII. What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our own corpse-coffins at last, Swallow’d in Vastness, lost in Silence, drown’d in the deeps of a meaningless Past? XVIII. What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a moment’s anger of bees in their hive?— . . . . . Peace, let it be! for I loved him, and love him for ever: the dead are not dead but alive.
Is your world real or imagined?
The other day a distant relation sent me a thick packet with a copy of the history of our family reunions dating all the way back to the late 19th century and a ten page history, written in neat hand, of one branch of my family tree going back to the early 1600’s.
How thrilling it was to finally see a picture of my great-great grandfather Lucien as an old man and to read about the exploits of family members who escaped being scalped by Indians during the Revolutionary War and others who sadly died during the Civil War. My great-great-great-great grandmother was such a fine spinner that wealthy women paid top dollar for her work. Some family members drank too much, others were heroes and still others were exploited as children.
I knew a few of the stories through my mother but most of the history was new—yet as I read it I felt like I knew it all already. There was a satisfaction in reading it but not that sense of surprise I would have expected. My aunt told us of an unsettling dream she had about meeting many past generations in heaven. I remember my father and uncle teasing her about it, scoffing at the notion of heaven and not really wanting to discuss death since that branch tended to die young and they were all in that age window of being taken. My aunt died a few days later.
This sense of knowing the past through dead relatives, of knowing them though never having met them, is so similar to knowing the characters I write about. I’ve never been able to change a thing about a character once they appear in my mind. I’m only able to unearth deeper truths about them. It’s as if they’ve been there all along waiting for their stories to be told, not mine. When the story starts to go in a direction that isn’t true, the characters push back and demand I dig more.
Sometimes I worry that this or that thing may be too much for a reader or my characters to bear, but the characters won’t rest until I put them through the wringer. But am I putting them through the wringer or just transcribing their history? Do they live in another dimension? Will I meet them some day in heaven?
It’s odd to have this knowing and the desire to know more. Occasionally there is also a sense of being pat on the back, as if a character is whispering in my ear. Yes, that’s exactly as it was for me. Those are the best moments. And so strange. After I finish publishing this series about the Crenshaw and Weldon families I may fictionalize my family tree, but I find the line between fiction and reality blurring. I feel Buck Crenshaw and my great grandfather begging me to get things right, but what for?
Readers and writers: How real are your characters to you? How real is your past to you?