Lincoln in the Bardo

“Lincoln in the Bardo” isn’t your run-of-the-mill historical novel or a straightforward ghost story. It’s a weirdly wonderful mashup of historical fact, spiritual limbo, and a chorus of voices that sound like a group chat gone haywire. The premise is simple yet loaded: President Abraham Lincoln is devastated by the death of his 11-year-old son, Willie, who lies in a Georgetown cemetery. But instead of moving on, Willie’s spirit lingers in the bardo—a Tibetan Buddhist idea for the transitional state between life and death.

The novel unfolds over a single night in this eerie, in-between place, where a motley crew of other spirits are stuck, too. These aren’t your typical ghosts. They’re souls who can’t quite accept their own deaths, trapped by regrets, unfinished business, or sheer stubbornness. You get characters like Hans Vollman, a printer who died before consummating his marriage and bears a grotesque physical reminder of that missed moment; Roger Bevins III, who took his own life after heartbreak and now has an unsettling abundance of eyes and limbs; and Reverend Everly Thomas, a man of faith who ironically can’t find peace.

This chorus of voices narrates the story, each adding fragments of history, personal anecdotes, and their own brand of grief and denial. The style is fragmented and polyphonic, which can feel chaotic, but it brilliantly mirrors the disorderly nature of grief and the confusion of being neither here nor there. It’s like listening to a dozen people talk over each other at a wake—sometimes poignant, sometimes absurd, always human.

At its core, the novel is about loss and the refusal to let go. The spirits in the bardo cling to their past lives, highlighting our human resistance to change and the terror of impermanence. Saunders uses this liminal space to wrestle with what it means to move on, or not, and how love and grief can bind us tighter than we’d like.

Lincoln’s real-life grief adds a grounding weight to the surreal setting. His visits to Willie’s crypt, his struggle to maintain composure during a brutal war, and his quiet, private sorrow provide a heartbreaking counterpoint to the chaotic voices of the dead. The historical snippets woven into the narrative add texture but never bog down the story.

The novel’s blend of historical fiction and magical realism is a double-edged sword. It creates a unique atmosphere—haunting, funny, and deeply human—but the fragmented style and multiple narrators can be a tough nut to crack. Readers not in the mood for a nonlinear, experimental narrative might find themselves lost or frustrated. But for those willing to lean into the weirdness, the payoff is a profound meditation on mortality, attachment, and the messy business of letting go.

“Lincoln in the Bardo” won the 2017 Booker Prize, and with good reason. It’s a novel that defies easy categorization and invites readers to grapple with grief not as a neat, linear process but as a chaotic, stubborn, and deeply personal journey. It’s a book that reminds us no one escapes loss unscathed, and sometimes the hardest part is simply accepting that things will never be the same.