The standout essays in Megan Marshall’s “After Lives” recall her troubled father and the fate of a high school classmate.
AFTER LIVES: On Biography and the Mysteries of the Human Heart, by Megan Marshall
“All biography is autobiography,” Ralph Waldo Emerson said, but most biographers are marginal by definition: parasites or scavengers, “the shadow in the garden,” to quote a godfather of the genre, James Atlas, in turn quoting his thorniest subject, Saul Bellow. When they step out of the margins it’s often because something has gone wrong.
In 2017 the highly esteemed biographer Megan Marshall, who won big prizes for her books about long-dead Margaret Fuller and the Peabody sisters, tried interlacing strings of her own life story with that of her former poetry teacher, Elizabeth Bishop, and was thanked with mixed reviews.
Now Marshall is making another halting run at memoir, with a modest collection of essays on topics including her paternal grandfather, who worked for the Red Cross in France after the First World War and photographed the burial of young American soldiers; a run of left-handedness on her mother’s side of the family; and a trip the author took to Kyoto during typhoon season. This is not a typhoon-like book that will knock you over with its coherence, but irregular winds blowing this way and that, some hotter than others.
The most compelling essay, “Free for a While,” is about Jonathan Jackson, the 17-year-old killed in a shootout that made front-page headlines in 1970. He had taken courtroom hostages in an attempt to force the release of his older brother George Jackson, the author of the best-selling Black Power manifesto “Soledad Brother,” from prison. Jonathan happened to be Marshall’s classmate at Blair High School in Pasadena, Calif., which canceled her planned salutatorian’s speech devoted to him (she managed to barge up and speak anyway).
To read her account of the boy she knew as “Jon” getting laughs playing Pyramus from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in their A.P. English class — “Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die” — two weeks before his death, and to discover the devastating origin of the essay’s title, is to yearn for an entire new suite of intellectual property — book, play, movie — devoted to this family.
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Source: Elections - nytimes.com
