Nobel Prize-winning author explores colonial history
It's difficult not to read Toni Morrison's latest novel outside the
shadow of Beloved, that other novel about an enslaved girl whose mother
makes a heartbreaking choice.
A Mercy is Morrison's fourth novel since Beloved, which ostensibly
won the Ohio-born author the Nobel Prize and was declared "the single
best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years" by The
New York Times. It's no wonder Beloved's towering reputation colors
everything Morrison has written since.
Morrison hasn't become one of America's greatest writers by giving
readers what they want; her business is giving them something they
didn't know they needed. In this case, that something is a meditation
on America before it dreamed of nationhood, told through the stories of
early traders, farmers and slaves, of all races. The publicists at
Knopf describe A Mercy as "almost like a prelude" to Beloved. It's
important to note from the outset that A Mercy—set in the 17th century
(versus Beloved's late 1800s)—is totally different, and that this is
good and right.
The center of A Mercyowner; Lina, an enslaved Native American woman; a wild child of
indeterminate origins called Sorrow; Jacob Vaark's hardy, but
mournfully childless wife, Rebekka, and two indentured servants.
Morrison's iconic types and favored themes appear: murdered and
abandoned children; proto-feminist whores; obsessive love; "good" slave
owners who die, leaving their charges in a lurch; women fiercely
clawing their way through the wilderness. With this cast of characters,
Morrison helps us recognize the 1680s as if it were last week, and
engages us in a work of fiction with surprisingly minimal plot.
A master of the historical novel who negates the cheesy
reverberations of that phrase, Morrison serves a feast that
21st-century readers can taste. We get applesauce and pecans for
dessert in Maryland and witness the "frisky, still living entrails" of
a criminal put to death in London. Morrison goes beyond simply
describing how it was to powerfully evoking how it really might have
been. For example, A Mercy reminds us that many white folks traveled to
the colonies in ship journeys nearly as dreadful as the Middle Passage,
and that 17th-century London—with its religious passions and festive
lynchings—was a hellhole that could make the frontier look like a
picnic in the park.
The ad-hoc family at the center of A Mercy evokes an America with
racial borders that have not yet hardened. The Vaarks' slaves and
servants—all orphaned or sold Africans, whites and Indians—struggle to
survive in companionship with the Master and Mistress. We know the
history here; we know that it can't last. As Lina notes, Jacob and
Rebekka think they are Adam and Eve. However, given the attendant
genocide, disease and the eating of calf hearts fried in butter,
Morrison questions not only whether early America was really Eden, but
if Eden was really such a paradise.
The reader who knows how grimly the story of race in America will
proceed—allowing for a November surprise or two—may be lulled into
predicting the end of A Mercy, particularly when the death of Jacob
Vaark tears the "family" asunder. But the last chapter is a revelation
of horrible tenderness that uprights our assumptions and knocks the
wind out of the world. The end is the beginning. And the beginning was
misunderstood by Florens and the reader.
A Mercy is its own reward. Still, it's not obvious how to compare
this decidedly smaller novel to that single best work of American
fiction published in the last 25 years.
comic maestro Larry David. A Mercy is to cult favorite Curb Your
Enthusiasm as Beloved is to mega-hit Seinfeld; narrower in scope and
less anthemic, but just as lovely, more eccentric and every bit as