Years ago during high school, I spent a summer with my grandparents. My grandfather was reading, among other books which I do not remember, Admiral of the Oceans Seas, a biography of Columbus, and the Harold Nicholson diaries, both hefty tomes that lay on the table by his green leather chair. While I may not remember the other titles, I do know that all of the books he read that summer were non-fiction. On the other hand I, while I spent a busy summer reading as well, read only fiction from my grandparents’ shelves, The Forsythe Saga, Kristen Lavransdatter, and War and Peace among many others.
Now that I am as old as my grandfather was that long-ago summer, I find that I too am reading more non-fiction. Is this a function of age? Perhaps, as I read less and less fiction. When I do I am drawn particularly to historical fiction. After reading a book in this genre, I spend more time looking up facts about the particular era in which the book was written than I did reading the book. Did that battle really take place? Could those two historical figures really have met? Did that emperor really do that?
I think that at this stage of life I want to know more about how real people lived their lives. Let’s face it, the challenges of life do not change much from generation to generation even though dressed in different garb. The human story is just one giant soap opera. The same themes drive people whether in doublet and hose or in flapper dress and pearls or in athletic gear with over-the-top running shoes. Money, marriage, social status, jobs, children, possessions and family drive us all. And how an historical person handled, or did not handle, all of that is real.
As an example I just finished reading Ron Chernow’s biography of Ulysses S. Grant. I will admit that the almost 1,000 page work took some discipline to get through, but it was worth every page. One particularly touching episode described the relationship of Grant and his wife Julia whom he loved dearly all his life. By all accounts Julia was not a very attractive woman, one of her blemishes being a congenital lazy eye which meant one eye turned inward. As Grant rose in stature, Julia finally consulted a physician about trying to correct this disfigurement, but it was now too late in life to do anything about it. She told her husband about the doctor visit commenting, “Why, you are getting to be such a great man and I am such a plain little wife,” her anxiety redolent in every word. Grant’s response echoes down over the years with a piercing devotion. He said to this homely, but clearly beloved wife, “Did I not see you and fall in love with you with these same eyes? I like them just as they are…..” And what fiction anywhere can beat that!