Susan Cheever's "American Bloomsbury"

Read: January 29, 2012

The conceit behind this literary biography about Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and others of their literary circle is a kind of historical novice reaction of amazement that famous people in history knew each other. It reads almost like a gossip magazine for intellectuals. Did you know Louisa May Alcott had a crush on Henry David Thoreau? Did you know that HDT may have had a relationship with Mrs. Emerson? You can almost read between the lines to hear the author's "oh em gee!" of delight.

Suffice it to say, I was not impressed. It's a book that makes all kinds of claims, like the one where a later work of Alcott's embodies Emerson and Thoreau in two male fictional protagonists, without any kind of support or reference. I often have trouble with nonfiction that is nonacademic for this very reason. How could Susan Cheever possibly know, early in the book, that Thoreau walked down the street chewing an apple, dreaming of the dinner his mother would cook. Does that kind of shallow detail warrant such high flung imagination? It's as if Cheever can't decide if she wants to write nonfiction or historical fiction, and so gets caught in the worst elements of both.

Perhaps the thing that I don't understand the most is the sense of pleased surprise Cheever expresses when she discovers that these famous American authors knew each other, and the way she presents this as a kind of lightning moment: a special place, a special time, a special group of people - unpredictable and amazing in its uniqueness. This tone is particularly shocking given the title, American Bloomsbury, which references Woolf and her circle in England. You could also have a similar title referencing the Lake Poets. People who practice the same craft with the same degree of skill tend to find one another and become friends. It's not a unique occurrence nor is it a cause for gasps of "oh em gee."

American Bloomsbury: highly not recommended.