The Killer Angels
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
So for years I’ve heard The Killer Angels referenced, alluded to, and praised but I never paid much attention. Clearly, some great battle happened at Gettysburg and lots of people decided to write lots of books about it but, as I said, it has never been my thing. I vaguely remember being underwhelmed by the movie adaptation (Gettysburg) as well and that reinforced my feeling that this wasn’t a book I was in any hurry to read. At Christmas however, Andrew forced the book on me and throttled me until I promised to read it—then I beat him up (it’s what skinny, left-handed, younger brothers are good for).
I few days later I found out how nice it is to be wrong.
This book, The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara, shook me. It bent me over, broke me in half, and scattered me all over the ground. It is not what I imagined it would be. It is not three hundred pages of 19th century minutiae and stuffy old men arguing politics. It is not chapter after chapter of troop movements and artillery fire. It is not a novel length treatise on the glory of war or states’ rights or an essay on the evils of slavery. It is so much more, and yet it is all those things as well, and it is beautiful. The entire book is suffused with an overwhelming sadness and sense of loss, a sense that the Civil War wasn’t just fought with cannonades and cavalry but was fought in men’s souls. The generals and officers, through whose eyes we see the battle, are such heartbroken, wounded, and human characters that in the midst of the incredible horror of war, they are rendered glorious simply by being alive.
I can’t tell you how many pages of my copy are tear-stained. By the time I turned the last page, I wanted nothing more than to get in my truck and drive north to find the rocks and fields where these men poured themselves out, to sit alone and dig my hands into the earth and grieve. How accurate the book is historically, I don’t know, but I do know beyond any shadow of doubt that this is a true story. True in the sense that it is a revelation of the human soul. It is a document of shining heights and bloody, nightmarish depths.
On a precious few occasions, I have read books that so emotionally exhaust me that I cannot pick up another for weeks, and sometimes I cannot even suffer myself to read another work by the same author for fear of spoiling something so sublime. This is one of those books. Michael Shaara has written something timeless, something so unique in the world that it cannot be duplicated or improved upon. I hope his words are still read long after his Pulitzer Prize has turned to dust. Whether or not the Civil War is your thing, this book deserves a place on your bookshelf. It needs to be read.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Thanks Pete! You make a very strong case and I will have to check this book out.
I had the same reaction to “The Killer Angels.” But, you shouldn’t stop there. Shaara’s son continued his legacy and published two additional novels about the Civil War. The second one, “The Last Full Measure,” deals with the brutal conclusion of the war, and, at least for me, invoked an even more powerful response than the one I had to “The Killer Angels.”
He has also written a two-book series on our nation’s struggle for independence that is riveting, and he’s currently working on book two of a series on World War II. All of his novels are meticulously researched, emotionally-charged, and quite powerful.
Give any of them a try and you won’t be disappointed.
Definitely I’ll have to get this one…and if you want to have a humorous story about the civil war fanatic culture (they call themselves “hard cores”) check out Tony Horowitz “Confederates in the Attic.” It might be just the thing to lighten your mood.
Thanks for the recommendation, Pete. Until I rented the Ken Burns PBS Civil War Series, besides school, the closest I’ve come to delving into Civil War minutia is a couple of Abraham Lincoln biographies. These biographies provided detail on the guts and bolts of Lincoln’s journey during the war, but didn’t really capture the heart of the fighting men and their leaders. I thought Burns did a decent job of capturing some of that, especially in the commentary of Shelby Foote.
In particular, I was moved by a letter written by Rhode Island volunteer Sullivan Ballou as he was about to embark with the Union Army on its first maneuver. He penned this letter to his wife Sarah in the expectation he might never have another opportunity. He did not send it, lest it worry her, placing it instead in his trunk, which would eventually find its way to his home and family:
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we will move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure - or it may be one of sever conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine, O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows - when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children - is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death - and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved, and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and the principles I have often advocated before the people and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on, with all these chains, to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard for me it is to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar - that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night - amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell our mothers I call God’s blessing upon them.
O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
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If the tenor and tone of the text in The Killer Angels is anything like that contained in this letter, it will be a worthwhile read indeed.
Allow me to take this moment to suggest that everyone spend $0.99 and buy the song “Ashokan Farewell / Sullivan Ballou” from iTunes. “Ashokan Farewell” is one of the most beautiful melodies composed in recent memory, and sounds like it’s a hundred years old. That song playing behind Ballou’s letter is a powerful thing to hear. Keep a hanky close at hand. Thanks for the reminder, Curt.
WOW. That is an amazing recommendation. How long is it ? I’m so terribly behind in my TBR books but I feel the need to read that one immediately.
Amy, it’s not a long book, 300 pages or so. I devoured it in a matter of just a few days, and I’m a very slow reader.
Curt, wow, that’s an amazing letter. I read that at work and got all teared up. I was terrified one of the boys was going to walk into my office and I’d have to explain why I was crying. I’m so manly sometimes it hurts.
Pete! Go download the durn song.
This book is insanely good, even for the non-history buff(eted?). I recommended it to El Proprietor about a year ago, and he, in turn, put a copy in your hands, Pete. So, in a way, I am responsible for making you cry. You wrote a far better review than I ever could have, so thanks for spreading the word.
All I can say, is that I’m going to find this book today. I’m not a freak or anything, and I don’t do reenactments, but I love American history with an emphasis on the Revolutionary War and the Civil War eras. There’s a familial story that draws me to seek out information and visit the sites where poignant events took place. I had the certain pleasure of finding and cleaning the somewhat forgotten graveyard for those killed in the Shelton Laurel massacre in Avery County, NC. My grandmother’s family is from Avery County, and she was a Shelton. We were able to trace and verify 2 family members who lost their lives on that horrific day. In a strange way, it seemed that visiting that place eased a whispering ache…nothing that you are conscious of on a daily basis, but something that creeps up upon the realization of grave human suffering. We also had the privilege of viewing a play that was written about the men who ordered the killings. The play, entitled “Beneath Shelton Laurel”, made it’s debut while we were there. Sean O’Leary is the playwright, he’s quite gifted and very personable. Look him up at http://www.olearyonstage.com. I believe the knowledge of past events and the association with them, shape even the tastes in music a person may have. Think about that for a few minutes and see what you discover, it could be interesting!
Jen,
Because this is such a great book, we have a few used paperback copies of The Killer Angels in the Rabbit Room store for a whopping $3. See how easy we make this for you?
Thanks so much for the info, especially since I didn’t get to the store yesterday!
(ha,ha) My little one was in rare form, so I figured I could wait another day or two…The $3 price is excellent as well, in fact, it makes me smile!
This is indeed a book well worth reading. My experience with this book has an interesting origin. For those among you that have a sour taste about the actions of the US Army, you may find it interesting to know that The Killer Angles is required reading for Officer Candidate School Cadets. What struck me about this was that this book stood out in how effectively it portrayed the suffering of war. That suffering is the price that a Soldier is asked to pay for their service to the principles that are greater than any of us.
Next, If you have a few tears left, pick up Flags of Our Fathers. Different from Angels in many ways of course but extremely perspective-changing reading.
I couldn’t agree more about Killer Angels. It is a masterpiece of literature, pure and simple.