Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, published 1983 by Harcourt, Inc.--yes, 1983!--deserves the title Masterpiece. That's a word I rarely use.
In the 19th Century, Charles Dickens became, arguably, the reigning English language author in Literature. In the 20th and 21st Centuries, Helprin became our Dickens. Argue with me if you will; I stand by my statement. But this is not intended to be a review.
So much of Helprin's work is quotable and read-out-loud-please great that to pick one passage becomes a challenge of mammoth proportions. However, given our current state of government affairs here in the United States, his message in this particular book is too pertinent to dismiss. I've chosen a few paragraphs to quote this morning.
Peter Lake, the protagonist of the novel, tries to retrace his first experience of New York City twenty years earlier near the turn of the 20th Century. At that time, Peter Lake saw a very young child, dying, alone in the hallway of an abandoned tenement. The sight haunted him so that he has returned to the site to find out what happened to the child--so damaged that he cannot tell you if it were boy or girl. His search leads him to the morgue of the hospital in Printing House Square and the doctor who performs autopsies on the dead, the nameless unclaimed poor of New York City. It is the doctor who speaks here:
"...'Maybe you're from some reform group, and you've come to gather evidence.' He glanced at Peter Lake and concluded from his expression and appearance that he was not. 'They come down here to snap pictures. They get a thrill here--that's why they come. They take stupendous joy in the indignation and compassion they feel on account of these mangled stiffs; it's their roller coaster. I know this,' he said, making a tragic incision across the abdomen of an adolescent girl, 'and I'll tell you why. Since I'm here all the time and take apart fifty of these things a day, I can't feel for each and every one of them. I'm not God. I don't have that much in me. The ladies' aides and the social critics sense immediately that I couldn't give a goddamn about all this inedible meat, and that's just what they want. They know they're better than the miserable bastards they try to help, but they really enjoy thinking that they're better than the rest of us, who aren't as "compassionate" as they are.' He turned to Peter Lake again, and said, 'You notice how often that very word escapes their lips? They use it like a cudgel. Beware.'
"What he did next, as a matter of routine, made Peter Lake close his eyes in horror. But the doctor continued, his hands glistening, as if nothing had happened. 'They come down here for their own benefit. It's as clear as day that they love it. The great irony and perfect joke is that the wretches on the bottom of the barrel get these self-serving scum as champions. Some champions! They feed off the poor--first materially, and then in spirit. But they deserve each other in a way, because vice and stupidity were made to go together.
"'I know this, you see, because I was poor. But I rose like a rocket, and I know how the whole thing works. The ones who are always on your side, or so they think, are the ones who keep you down. Everything they do keeps you down. They'll forgive you for anything. Rob, rape, pillage, and kill, and they'll defend you to yourself. They understand all outrages, and all your failings and faults, too. Perfect! You can go on that way forever. What do they care? Excuse me: they do care. They want it that way.'
"He bent over to make a short cut, as thin as a hair, across the chest of the emaciated blond girl that he had just eviscerated. 'How would they make a living, these servants of the poor, if there were no poor?
"'What enabled me to rise above all the people who don't know enough to come in out of the rain is that one day I looked face to face at a man who hated half of everything I was and had the courage to tell me so. I remember his very words. He said, '"What you're doing is hideous--a perfect way to die young. Unless you want to live sweetly only in the hereafter, you ought to learn how to do the right thing."' The doctor stopped what he was doing, dropped his hand to his sides, and looked directly at Peter Lake. 'I hate the poor. Look what they do to themselves. How could you not hate them, unless you thought that they should be like this.'"
This is an excerpt--a minor one in view of the enormous scope of this 748-page novel--from Winter's Tale and an example of the social commentary both Helprin and Dickens write. But the book is not pedantic; far from it. The novel is a beautifully realized love story about New York, human beings and their various conditions and characters, a white horse, and infinity.
Characters are richly drawn as are descriptions which refuse to be skipped over and ignored. Discription as a word pales beside the richness of Helprin's similes, language, color, olfactory teases or assaults. He is incapable of imprecision, whether dialogue, action, description or characterization. His humor is subtle, but at times you find yourself laughing out loud.
I usually refrain from superlatives even when discussing superlative authors. There are many writers I admire and recommend. But I use the word "genius" sparingly; Mark Helprin is a story-telling genius. Fortunately for his readers, Winter's Tale is just one of many beautifully told and compelling works. I urge you to read Mark Helprin. His writing informs and invites our generation to change for the better; I hope his message does not go unheeded in this time of "change" for the much, much worse.
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