For whatever reason, one of my favorite and most consistently enjoyed settings for novels to take place in is the American Midwest during the late 19th/early 20th century. Something about the farms, the rapidly changing times, and the rural sensibilities really attracts me. Books that take place here often have a heightened focus on nature which, after reading many science fiction books, I've come to appreciate. Many novels I've enjoyed take place here, especially those by Willa Cather, and So Long, See You Tomorrow by William Maxwell is now easily a part of that list.
Before reading this book, I had been in a sort of reading slump. The mundane difficulties of adult life have been slowly piling up, and I found myself unable to focus and unwilling to sit down for periods of time to read. I had finished My Ántonia by Cather a week prior, and was slightly disappointed. Not because the book was bad by any means, but because it didn't rekindle the flame of reading as I would have hoped. It was good, but not my favorite work of Cather's.
So I took a break. Two weeks went by, and eventually I began to get the itch again, so I went to a bookstore near my house and picked up two books: So Long, See You Tomorrow and All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy (can't wait to read that one!) Feeling ready to enter the world of literature again, I opened the former and unknowingly fell into a pleasantly brief exploration of memories, empathy, and life in the old Midwest.
While I was trying to determine which genre this novel falls into, I came across a genre which I hadn't heard of until writing this, but which perfectly describes the structure of this book. That genre is autobiographical metafiction. It's a bit of a mouthful, but this book perfectly encapsulates this idea.
For one, many of the events of the book, like the narrator's mother dying, his family, and possibly the character of Cletus, can be assumed as autobiographical. In fact, many of them are on historical records, and others are described in such detail I'd be surprised if they weren't. Yet at the same time, the narrator comes right out and tells the reader that much of the book is imagined and only loosely held together by occasional historical events which in the end still firmly peg the story in realm of reality.
For the most part, the memories which Maxwell actually experienced are described in the first person whereas the imagined events are in the third person. This almost creates two books in one: the first, where Maxwell recounts his short friendship with Cletus, shattered by an unspeakable crime that forever abandoned their relationship; the second, a classic tragedy of love and lack of understanding which destroys two families, a friendship, and a man's life.
The second was created to piece together the aftermath of the first; further, the only events Maxwell himself experienced was playing in his unfinished house with Cletus as children and seeing Cletus in the hall at school. Like this unfinished house, Maxwell's memories have large gaps, gaps that can be filled by fine wood floors and tall, sturdy walls, or, in other words, nicely imagined outcomes. Maxwell feels guilty for never acknowledging Cletus' pain when he knew him, and so this novel and its expansion of Cletus' story is a way Maxwell can atone with Cletus empathetically despite having few actual memories with him.
In imagining the murder of Lloyd Wilson at the hands of Cletus' father Clarence, Maxwell not only empathizes with Cletus, but also humanizes all the others players involved in the tragedy. Lloyd, who fell in love with Clarence's wife Fern, is shown as a hardworking man stuck in what seems to be a passionless marriage. Fern is selfish and unpredictable, but also seemed to expect more than the world gave her. Clarence is prone to anger, but loves his wife and wants the same in return. Even the owners of each family's homestead are shown to be stern, but surprisingly understanding of their tenants' situations.
I thought it was interesting how the complicated, everybody-loses situations of the characters were contrasted with the values they are preached to each Sunday in church. For example, Lloyd is stuck in a passionless marriage, and selfishly destroys his and his best friend's marriage for the sake of his own infatuation. Yet at the same time, he feels unable to control his desires, and is tormented by them his inability to confront them. Clarence's best friend and his own wife betray him, even as he works hard to provide, yet he still loses in court. Undoubtably, he is prone to violence, but even so his side of the story is not fairly shown and he ends up in a brutal divorce arrangement which pushes him into isolation and poverty. Fern herself, for all her selfishness, simply wanted to be understood and to recapture the feeling of understanding she felt from her sister's husband. Perhaps they were all doomed, but in any case what unfolds is tragic; though the situations were arguably avoidable, the seeds which they sprouted from were bound to cause suffering at some point in the characters lives.
If one was to oversimplify the story, they could simply (and incorrectly) chalk up the whole ordeal to an tormented man exacting revenge on another for stealing his wife and breaking his family and just leave it at that. But Maxwell decides to approach the story with humanity; knowing that these people, at the end of the day, want to feel love, security, and understanding, above all else. The actions are wrong, but undeniably human by their nature.
The ghostly image of Maxwell's unfinished house on 9th street in Lincoln, Illnois, which comes up again and again throughout the novel, beings the idea of constructed memory and storytelling into a physically intimate form. Though these people were real, many memories are unfinished or unfound, as large gaps find themselves between steady beams. Like children, we play among these, slowly building the story we want to tell from the perhaps sturdy but incomplete framework of our memories. We may try to fill our past with memories, but at a certain point we simply run out and must create our own set of stories from what we know and perhaps what we can find out. In the process of doing this, we naturally prioritize happy endings and tied ends. The central message Maxwell seems to convey is that from the last time we say "So long, see you tomorrow" to someone, to when these people and events enter our heads once more, we should try to close the black voids of memory with sturdy bridges of empathy, kindness, and above all else, understanding.