A review by jfl
Andersonville by MacKinlay Kantor
4.0
I am curious how a work enters the Contemporary Canon. Who or what decides if any given literary piece survives beyond its publication as some type of icon, valued for its uniqueness or literary strength? And indeed, how is “uniqueness” determined or defined and by whom?
McKinley Kantor’s “Andersonville” was a hit in the wake of its publication in 1955. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1956; was a Book-of-the-Month Club selection, was well-reviewed and long remained on the best seller list. I remember when it came into our house as a hardcover that prominently weighted our bookshelf after my parents devoured it and invited extended discussions about the Civil War. It was Kantor’s masterpiece, prepared over 25 years of research and investigation. Bruce Catton called it "the best Civil War novel I have ever read."
Although it long enjoyed both popularity and financial success in the wake of its publication, my sense is that it is not considered today as a part of the Contemporary Canon. It certainly does not figure in any of the more common lists of notable fiction from the XX Century and I would be surprised to find it listed in a major bibliography of selected, fiction works dealing with the Civil War.
Perhaps one reason why it has slipped into oblivion is that its structure is antithetical to contemporary tastes. The current age is mesmerized by hagiographies infrequently written by professional historians. In both histories and historical novels, preferences run to a central figure whose actions or inactions thread dominantly through the work. Biographies, for example, of the Founding Fathers are today’s rage. In “Andersonville”, there is no central figure outside the prison itself. The plantation owner, Ira Claffey, opens and closes the novel, but he does not control the action. Rather, the work is a collection of vignettes of a large number of ordinary people (some historical but most fictional) of whom Claffey is merely one. It resembles more closely the work of the social historians who might seem uninterested in sketching for the reader a broader narrative synthesis and thus are less attractive to the general public.
There is also the length of the novel. At 760 word-packed pages, it probably tries the patience of readers who prefer tighter editing. Also, several reviewers have been negatively critical of Kantor’s failure to mark dialogue clearly. Exposition and conversation run together, without identifying punctuation, causing frustration and confusion among some readers.
Yet, although the novel may have escaped a place among the XX Century American Canon, it is still an engaging and informative read, stylistically strong. It captures in effortless prose the Nation toward the latter part of the armed conflict when the Union’s defeat of the Confederacy is all too apparent as are the horrors of the unexpectedly lengthy war.
Andersonville the prison, run by the Confederacy to hold captured Union soldiers, is the scene of human depravity both inside the stockade and outside. And Kantor captures that depravity in its full dimension. You see it, feel it, hear it, taste it and smell it. During the 14 months of its existence (1864-1865), more than 45,000 Union soldiers were confined there and some 13,000 died, wasted away from starvation, exposure to the elements, overcrowding and disease.
In Kantor’s telling, death stalks life; the strong pray on the weak; humanity is redefined without redemption; indifference replaces compassion. It is the story of ordinary people mutating into animals during uncommon times.
Although Andersonville prison—its community of guards, prisoners and neighbors—is the focal point of the novel, Kantor gives each of the people he highlights deep histories. His people come from rural and urban roots: farmers, landowners, artisans, professionals, slaves, vagabonds, seamen, ruffians and hooligans, traders and merchants. In their composite, they and their families are a microcosm of American society of the 1860s, mutilated and depressed by the barbarity of war.
While evil infuses the novel, it is not a hopeless world. Some humanity does survive. A physician labors to alleviate suffering even though his efforts are inadequate and unsuccessful; a handful of prisoners organize an internal policing effort to permanently stop a cadre of bullies and thugs (fellow prisoners themselves) from wanton exploitation. Toward the end of the novel, an escaped prisoner is befriended by one of the prison guards, forming, in the process, an ultimately deeply emotional and liberating friendship. But the examples of humanity and civility only underscore the basic brutality of Andersonville and, ultimately, of the Civil War itself.
McKinley Kantor’s “Andersonville” was a hit in the wake of its publication in 1955. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1956; was a Book-of-the-Month Club selection, was well-reviewed and long remained on the best seller list. I remember when it came into our house as a hardcover that prominently weighted our bookshelf after my parents devoured it and invited extended discussions about the Civil War. It was Kantor’s masterpiece, prepared over 25 years of research and investigation. Bruce Catton called it "the best Civil War novel I have ever read."
Although it long enjoyed both popularity and financial success in the wake of its publication, my sense is that it is not considered today as a part of the Contemporary Canon. It certainly does not figure in any of the more common lists of notable fiction from the XX Century and I would be surprised to find it listed in a major bibliography of selected, fiction works dealing with the Civil War.
Perhaps one reason why it has slipped into oblivion is that its structure is antithetical to contemporary tastes. The current age is mesmerized by hagiographies infrequently written by professional historians. In both histories and historical novels, preferences run to a central figure whose actions or inactions thread dominantly through the work. Biographies, for example, of the Founding Fathers are today’s rage. In “Andersonville”, there is no central figure outside the prison itself. The plantation owner, Ira Claffey, opens and closes the novel, but he does not control the action. Rather, the work is a collection of vignettes of a large number of ordinary people (some historical but most fictional) of whom Claffey is merely one. It resembles more closely the work of the social historians who might seem uninterested in sketching for the reader a broader narrative synthesis and thus are less attractive to the general public.
There is also the length of the novel. At 760 word-packed pages, it probably tries the patience of readers who prefer tighter editing. Also, several reviewers have been negatively critical of Kantor’s failure to mark dialogue clearly. Exposition and conversation run together, without identifying punctuation, causing frustration and confusion among some readers.
Yet, although the novel may have escaped a place among the XX Century American Canon, it is still an engaging and informative read, stylistically strong. It captures in effortless prose the Nation toward the latter part of the armed conflict when the Union’s defeat of the Confederacy is all too apparent as are the horrors of the unexpectedly lengthy war.
Andersonville the prison, run by the Confederacy to hold captured Union soldiers, is the scene of human depravity both inside the stockade and outside. And Kantor captures that depravity in its full dimension. You see it, feel it, hear it, taste it and smell it. During the 14 months of its existence (1864-1865), more than 45,000 Union soldiers were confined there and some 13,000 died, wasted away from starvation, exposure to the elements, overcrowding and disease.
In Kantor’s telling, death stalks life; the strong pray on the weak; humanity is redefined without redemption; indifference replaces compassion. It is the story of ordinary people mutating into animals during uncommon times.
Although Andersonville prison—its community of guards, prisoners and neighbors—is the focal point of the novel, Kantor gives each of the people he highlights deep histories. His people come from rural and urban roots: farmers, landowners, artisans, professionals, slaves, vagabonds, seamen, ruffians and hooligans, traders and merchants. In their composite, they and their families are a microcosm of American society of the 1860s, mutilated and depressed by the barbarity of war.
While evil infuses the novel, it is not a hopeless world. Some humanity does survive. A physician labors to alleviate suffering even though his efforts are inadequate and unsuccessful; a handful of prisoners organize an internal policing effort to permanently stop a cadre of bullies and thugs (fellow prisoners themselves) from wanton exploitation. Toward the end of the novel, an escaped prisoner is befriended by one of the prison guards, forming, in the process, an ultimately deeply emotional and liberating friendship. But the examples of humanity and civility only underscore the basic brutality of Andersonville and, ultimately, of the Civil War itself.