A Choral Requiem 
 An exceedingly tall and unkempt fellow was making his way toward us through the darkness. 
 This was highly irregular. It was after hours; the front gate would be locked. 
 The boy had been delivered only that day. That is to say, the man has most likely been here-- 
 Quite recently. 
 That afternoon. 
 Highly irregular. 
 The gentleman seemed lost. Several time he stopped, looked about, retraced his steps, reversed course. 
 He was softly sobbing. 
 George Saunders' extraordinary book reads more like a verse drama or musical score than a conventional novel. It is a symphony of voices, both real and imagined, a choral requiem. They are acknowledged in small print after each paragraph; this particular conversation involves a middle-aged master printer (Hans Vollman), a gay printer's apprentice (Roger Bevins III), and the Reverend Everly Thomas. All three are dead, ghosts in a limbo occupied by spirits who have not allowed themselves, or been allowed, to pass on; Tibetans call this the "Bardo." The date is February 1862, the setting a cemetery in Georgetown, and the "exceedingly tall and unkempt fellow" is Abraham Lincoln, come to visit the tomb of his eldest son Willie, dead of typhus at eleven years of age. 
 Saunders' narrative method allows for real voices to be included among the fictional ones; the only distinction is that each actual quotation is given a bibliographical citation.* I found these parts of the story quietly powerful. We get glimpses of the boy lying sick upstairs at the White House while a gala reception goes on below. We hear from butlers, maids, grooms, and graveyard keepers as the funeral takes place, and later as the President returns alone at night. We get hints of the horror as Americans on both sides recognize the likely scale of the new Civil War and (surprisingly to me) raise their voices against "America's most reviled President." And finally, Saunders suggests that Lincoln's experience in the graveyard might have made him a stronger and more compassionate leader. Virtually none of the words in these sections are Saunders' own, but he proves himself a master orchestrator of borrowed voices. 
 I only wish I had liked the fictional voices more. Vollman, Bevins, and Thomas remain the principal commentators, but there are a score of others, male and female, white and black, violent or pathetic, gentle, aggressive, racist, or obscene. They are confusing at first, as we don't know how long each has been there, or what it will take to have them released. Gradually, we do discover the back-stories of several of these beings, and even glean some shreds of character. But too few of them are rounded out, too many are mere types; too often the chorus can become cacophony. And while the swift repartee keeps the book moving swiftly, its underlying humor verges more than once on camp. 
 So how to rate this? I read with admiration throughout, and with wonder at Saunders' originality and skill: five stars. But I was often confused, occasionally impatient, and seldom emotionally engaged: three stars at best. On the other hand, both the historical and imagined scenes involving Abraham Lincoln were consistently strong, and there were passages towards the end where the always-good writing rose to true excellence. So let me end with one of these, from the farewell of Roger Bevins, to justify my rating of four stars, indeed a high four: 
 Though the things of the world were strong with me still. 
 Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen closk, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one's clinging shirt post-June rain. 
 Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. 
 Someone's kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. 
 A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. 
 Geese above, clover below, the sound of one's own breath when winded. 
 The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one's beloved's name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. 
 Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. 
 Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. 
 ====== 
 *I now learn (from reports of an interview that is not included in my edition) that while all the bibliographical citations I bothered to check are indeed real, Saunders also felt free to insert some quasi-real voices of his own. Which is fine, because they all contributed, and sure fooled me!