Why Is 'Lincoln In The Bardo' Considered Experimental Fiction?

'Lincoln in the Bardo' is a literary masterpiece that scooped up some of the most prestigious awards in the book world. It won the Man Booker Prize in 2017, which is a huge deal—it’s like the Oscars for novels. The book also snagged the Goodreads Choice Award for Historical Fiction that same year, proving readers adored it just as much as critics. What makes these wins special is how the novel blends historical depth with surreal storytelling. The Man Booker win especially highlighted its innovative structure, mixing ghostly voices with Abraham Lincoln’s grief. The awards cemented George Saunders’ reputation as a writer who can bend genres and emotions in unforgettable ways.

'Lincoln in the Bardo' is a fascinating blend of historical fiction and surreal imagination. While it draws inspiration from real events—specifically the death of Abraham Lincoln's young son, Willie, during the Civil War—the novel takes massive creative liberties. The 'bardo' itself is a Tibetan concept representing a transitional state between death and rebirth, which George Saunders uses to craft a ghostly narrative far removed from strict historical accuracy. The grief-stricken Lincoln is grounded in reality, but the chorus of spirits and their bizarre, often humorous interactions are pure fiction. The book’s emotional core, Lincoln’s mourning, is historically documented, but the spectral world Saunders builds is entirely his own. The juxtaposition of real quotes from 1862 newspapers with outlandish ghost dialogues creates a unique tension between fact and fantasy. It’s less about retelling history and more about exploring universal themes of loss and the afterlife through a kaleidoscopic lens.

If you're looking for a deep dive into 'Lincoln in the Bardo', I'd recommend starting with literary blogs and academic journals. Sites like JSTOR or Project Muse often have scholarly articles dissecting the novel's themes of grief, historical reimagination, and Saunders' experimental narrative style. The book’s unique structure—blending historical quotes with ghostly dialogues—gets analyzed from multiple angles, like postmodernism or the intersection of fact and fiction. For a more casual but insightful take, platforms like Goodreads or Medium feature reader essays exploring personal interpretations. Some focus on Lincoln’s paternal sorrow, while others unpack the bardo’s Buddhist influences. Podcasts like 'The Lit Up' occasionally cover it too, offering lively discussions on its emotional resonance. Don’t miss Saunders’ interviews; he often reveals layers even critics overlook.

'Lincoln in the Bardo' is a masterpiece of narrative experimentation, blending over a hundred voices to tell its haunting story. The primary narrators are the ghosts trapped in the Bardo—a Tibetan limbo—each with distinct personalities and histories. Among them, Hans Vollman, Roger Bevins III, and the Reverend Everly Thomas stand out, offering poignant, often darkly comic perspectives. Their voices intertwine with historical figures, snippets from real and fictional texts, and even Abraham Lincoln himself, creating a chorus of grief and longing. The ghosts’ accounts are fragmented yet deeply human, reflecting their unresolved lives. Vollman, a middle-aged printer, speaks with wistful confusion; Bevins, a young suicide, rhapsodizes about sensory beauty; the Reverend clings to moral certainty. Historical excerpts—some authentic, some invented—mimic archival research, adding layers of authenticity. Lincoln’s soliloquies, raw with paternal sorrow, anchor the chaos. The result is less a traditional novel than a symphonic meditation on loss, where every voice, however brief, contributes to the collective ache.

In 'Lincoln in the Bardo', George Saunders masterfully merges historical fiction with fantasy by grounding the story in real events—President Lincoln’s grief after his son Willie’s death—while immersing readers in a surreal afterlife. The bardo, a Tibetan Buddhist limbo, becomes a playground for spirits who refuse to move on, blending factual grief with supernatural introspection. Historical figures like Lincoln intermingle with ghostly voices, each offering fragmented perspectives that mirror the chaos of loss. The novel’s structure, a collage of quotes and spectral monologues, reinforces this duality: the weight of history meets the fluidity of fantasy. Saunders doesn’t just recount Lincoln’s sorrow; he reimagines it through a chorus of the dead, turning a presidential anecdote into a universal meditation on love and letting go. The fantasy elements aren’t escapism but emotional amplifiers. Ghosts grapple with their unfinished business, their stories ranging from tragic to absurd, yet all tethered to human frailties. Lincoln’s midnight visit to Willie’s crypt becomes a bridge between realms, where historical accuracy bends to accommodate raw, fantastical grief. The bardo’s rules—ghosts fading if forgotten, or trapped by denial—echo real-world struggles with memory and acceptance. This interplay elevates the novel beyond biography, making it a haunting dialogue between fact and the unknowable.

I just finished 'The Lincoln Highway,' and that ending left me speechless. The book takes such a wild turn in the final chapters that I had to reread it just to process everything. Emmett, Duchess, and Woolly’s journey spirals into chaos when Duchess’s schemes finally catch up with them. The confrontation at the farmhouse is intense—Duchess’s recklessness leads to a violent showdown, and Woolly’s tragic fate hits like a punch to the gut. Emmett, who’s been trying to do right, ends up alone on the road again, but this time with nothing but regret and the weight of what happened. What’s haunting is how Amor Towles leaves things open. Emmett’s future is uncertain, and the highway becomes a metaphor for all the roads not taken. The side characters, like Sally, get these bittersweet resolutions that mirror the book’s themes of second chances and consequences. The ending doesn’t tie everything up neatly, which feels true to life—some mistakes can’t be undone, and some friendships are shattered beyond repair. It’s a masterclass in how to end a story without easy answers.

No, Lincoln does not die in 'Prison Break'. He goes through a lot of challenges, but makes it through the series. It's a rollercoaster of emotions, especially with his brother Michael's twists and turns. The suspense keeps you hooked until the very end!

The main antagonist in 'The Lincoln Highway' is Duchess, a character who embodies chaos and manipulation in a way that feels both timeless and freshly terrifying. What makes Duchess so compelling is how he contrasts with the novel's protagonists—while Emmett and Billy are driven by a desire for redemption and family, Duchess operates on pure self-interest and opportunism. He's not just a villain in the traditional sense; he's a force of disruption who exposes the fragility of the brothers' plans. The way Towles writes Duchess makes him feel like a classic literary antagonist—charismatic enough to draw you in, but with a ruthlessness that keeps you on edge. His actions create this ripple effect that forces the other characters to confront their own moral boundaries, making him central to the novel's tension. What's especially interesting is how Duchess's antagonism isn't purely external. He represents the darker impulses that Emmett could easily succumb to if he weren't so determined to stay on his chosen path. Their dynamic becomes this fascinating study in how people respond to adversity—whether they fold under pressure or find strength in their principles. The novel doesn't paint Duchess as a one-dimensional bad guy; there are moments where you almost sympathize with him, which makes his role as the antagonist all the more effective. Towles gives him enough depth to feel human, but never so much that he loses that edge of danger that makes him such a compelling opposition.