Authors: Martha Hodes
On
diaries and diary keeping
, see Christine Nelson, “Writing for an Imagined Audience,” Room for Debate,
New York Times
, November 26, 2012, nytimes.com/room fordebate/2012/11/25/will-diaries-be-published-in-2050/digital-and-paper-diaries-are-writ ten-for-an-imagined-audience; “The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Lives,” Morgan Library and Museum exhibition, New York, January 21–May 22, 2011,
themorgan.org/exhibitions/exhibition.asp?id=42
; Alexandra Johnson,
A Brief History of Diaries: From
Pepys to Blogs
(London: Hesperus, 2011); Molly McCarthy, “A Pocketful of Days: Pocket Diaries and Daily Record Keeping among Nineteenth-Century New England Women,”
New England Quarterly
73 (2000), 274–96; Cinthia Gannett,
Gender and the Journal: Diaries and Academic Discourse
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992); Laurel Thatcher Ulrich,
A Midwife’s Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785–1812
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990); Margo Culley,
A Day at a Time: The Diary Literature of American Women Writers from 1764 to the Present
(New York: Feminist Press, 1985); and Thomas Mallon,
A Book of One’s Own: People and Their Diaries
(New York: Ticknor and Fields, 1984). On
letters and letter writing,
see Konstantin Dierks,
In My Power: Letter Writing and Communications in Early America
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009); Thomas Mallon,
Yours Ever: People and Their Letters
(New York: Random House, 2009); and Nigel Hall, “The Materiality of Letter Writing: A Nineteenth-Century Perspective,” in
Letter Writing as a Social Practice
, ed. David Barton and Nigel Hall (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2000), 83–108. On
literacy,
see Christopher Hager,
Word by Word: Emancipation and the Act of Writing
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2013); and Edward E. Gordon and Elaine H. Gordon,
Literacy in America: Historic Journey and Contemporary Solutions
(Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2003).
Most historians work with a single collection of archival papers for weeks at a time, but the nature of this project required me to request as many as ten or twenty collections in a day of research. For their assistance and patience, I thank the librarians in archives across the country who fetched thousands of letters and diaries from the vaults, thereby bringing alive the spring and summer of 1865. For transporting me back in time, I also thank Sarah Jencks for an extra-special tour of Ford’s Theatre and Petersen House.
For engaging with ideas at key junctures, I thank Louis Masur and the Trinity College American Studies Department, and Laura Gotkowitz and the University of Pittsburgh Humanities Center, for two wonderful extended visits filled with intellectual enthusiasm. I thank equally keen audiences at Bowdoin College, the Charles Warren Center at Harvard University, the Massachusetts Historical Society, Brown University’s Nineteenth-Century Workshop, the German Historical Institute in Washington, the “Writing the History of Everyday Life” workshop at NYU-Berlin, the New York Military Affairs Symposium, the Gathering Place in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, the Society of Civil War Historians, and the graduate student–designed conference at New York University, “Against Recovery: Slavery, Freedom, and the Archive.”
For a fellowship year of paradise, I thank the Charles Warren Center for Studies in American History at Harvard University, where I joined a group of scholars exploring the theme of everyday life, and the Massachusetts Historical Society, where I held a National Endowment for the Humanities fellowship (the views and conclusions in this book do not necessarily reflect those of the NEH). At Harvard, I thank Robin Bernstein and Samuel Zipp for creating and nurturing an exceptional community. Thank you Robin, Sandy, Luis Alvarez, Jayna Brown (special thanks for our lunch at Sandrine’s that day), Bruce Dorsey, Karen Hansen, David Jaffee, Ann Pellegrini, Kyla Wazana Tompkins, Sara Warner, and Harvey Young for persistent, repeated, and extraordinary interchange. Sincere gratitude also to Nancy Cott and Lizabeth Cohen, and to Arthur Patton-Hock and Larissa Kennedy. At the Massachusetts Historical Society, Conrad Wright and the entire staff offered generous attention, steady writing time, and ongoing edifying exchange in a glittering array of events. My fellow long-term fellows, Matthew Dennis and Kristin Collins, kept our hallway humming with productivity, and the endnotes to this book attest to the remarkable richness
of the MHS collections. Together, Harvard, the Massachusetts Historical Society, and the NEH gave me the gift of a year that Bruce Dorsey and I had long conjured: all the time in the world to write, followed by time to talk about writing—on the skylit top floor of Emerson Hall, in our bright and cozy Avon Street home, on miles-at-a-time walks, and over coffee at Simon’s or Bloc 11.
That imagined paradise could not have come true without the mighty senior scholars who magnanimously supported my work. James McPherson long ago awakened my passion for studying race, the Civil War, and Reconstruction in his luminous seminars and lectures at Princeton University and remains a steadfast presence in my intellectual life, from every book he produces to our lunches at Prospect House, where we talked about Lincoln’s assassination. David Blight has lit up my path with his brilliance and warmth—as someone so aptly put it after attending a lecture by David, “You just want to hang out with him forever.” I am fortunate indeed to hang out with him every so often. Drew Faust has been an ally since the earliest years of my career and remains unstintingly generous, even as she has scaled to the top of the world. Martha Sandweiss and I began to talk about writing during the book before this one, and her ideas continue to dazzle me (special thanks also for introducing me to Wendy Strothman). Thomas Bender’s enduring wisdom and encouragement across two decades of collegiality continue to shape my scholarship (Tom was also the neighbor who walked with me on the morning of September 12, 2001, in search of a newspaper). James Goodman has inspired me from the first line of his dissertation all those many years ago to our conversation over coffee last week. Thank you all for your time and letters. Sincere thanks as well to Richard Wightman Fox, who welcomed me to the world of Lincoln’s assassination and happily discussed our parallel projects.
I thank New York University’s Global Research Initiative for a sublime month in Berlin, where I wrote every day, with a beautiful view of Prenzlauer Berg, and together with Bruce Dorsey hosted a stirring workshop on “Writing the History of Everyday Life”; thank you, Ryan Wu, Gabriella Etmektsoglou, Maya Jex, Katherine Fleming, and our fellow everyday-lifers: Grace Hale, Sebastian Jobs, Nora Kreuzenbeck, Jürgen Martschukat, and Silvan Niedermeier. Back home at NYU, I thank colleagues and friends Thomas Bender, Jane Burbank, Herrick Chapman, Fred Cooper, Hasia Diner, Nicole Eustace, Ada Ferrer, Linda Gordon, Fiona Griffiths, Karen Kupperman, Michele Mitchell, Maria Montoya, Jennifer Morgan, Molly Nolan (especially for our Berlin days that June), David Oshinsky, Joanna Waley-Cohen, and Barbara Weinstein. Thank you to the undergraduates in my 2011 Experimental History seminar, Brendan Check, Megan Dran, Lara Gomes da Costa, Sarah Kolinovsky, Zachary Leibman, Caroline Marris, Jed Portman, and Sheena Yap, who indulged me as I completed the course’s writing assignments along with them, experimenting with different ways to tell the story of mourning Lincoln. My phenomenal PhD advisees—some out in the world, others soon to launch—inspire me more than they can imagine: Emilie Connolly, Sarah Cornell, Ben Davidson, Kendra Field, Taja-Nia Henderson, Alex Manevitz, Rachel Mattson, Melissa Milewski, Max Mishler, Samantha Seeley, and Peter Wirzbicki.
My agent, Wendy Strothman, helped me figure out this book. With her sharp-eyed
toughness, she brainstormed ideas, shaped the proposal, thought up the title, and hurried me along. In the rapidly changing world of publishing, Wendy knows everything and everyone and hence united me with Steve Wasserman at Yale University Press, who charmed me from the moment we met. Spotting him at his special table at the Union Square Café, in dapper attire and reading a book, I’d barely taken my seat before he exclaimed upon the beauty of a particular sentence he’d just encountered. Ever since (and always at the same lovely table), Steve has treated me to a stream of thrilling and thought-provoking conversation about reading, writing, and writers—that invariably sent me skipping back to my desk. At Yale University Press, editorial assistants Erica Hanson and Eva Skewes remained gallantly attentive and obliging throughout the production process and beyond. Laura Jones Dooley graciously answered my countless questions about grammar and style and, best of all, taught me about compound predicates.
Freelance editor Susan Whitlock had at the manuscript when it was a tortuous second draft, upon which she performed a first-class, five-star, blue-chip, top-of-the-line redraft. Susan’s expert artistry can make the tired words of anyone shimmer and dance, and I recommend her to all scholars and writers. Louis Masur provided a terrifically thoughtful and spot-on reading of the penultimate draft in record time. To an anonymous reader I give my utmost gratitude, not least for saving me from factual errors that could have been corrected only by someone with a vast knowledge of the Civil War era—I venture to say that your luminous name has already appeared in these acknowledgments. James Goodman, scholar and writer par excellence, cheerfully volunteered to read the whole thing at nearly the eleventh hour, giving me a host of insights and a genius correction in the very first line that no one else had noticed. Eva Moseley, archivist and writer, volunteered a read-through at the eleventh-and-three-quarters hour, and I am grateful indeed for her gift of linguistic rigor and precision. Bruce Dorsey read every word twice and many words ten times, rattled off whole bibliographies of context, and helped me identify the author of the anonymous diary as Rodney Dorman. Most of all, Bruce offered so many interpretations of the evidence that had never occurred to me that I regularly suggested coauthorship, which he stubbornly refused every time. Accordingly, each person in this paragraph is responsible only for the good parts of the book, and I alone for the rest.
I am grateful to my community of friends in Swarthmore and Philadelphia: to Laurie Bernstein and Robert Weinberg, and especially for my walks with Laurie, which always left me breathless, not only from the hills climbed but also from the content of our conversations; to Mary Marissen, for our steady and soothing get-togethers across so many years; and to Ben Yagoda and Gigi Simeone, Sharon Ullman, and Bryant Simon, for friendship and much-needed good times, with special thanks to Ben and Bryant for always-sage reflections on writing. In New York, James Goodman provided hours of inspiring conversation, and along with Jenny McFeely provided respite from everything. Susan Whitlock is not only a stupendous editor but a precious friend as well—we met many years ago working on the
Let’s Go Europe
travel guides, and how happy I am that she is now a fellow New Yorker.
The glorious year in Cambridge was enhanced yet more by Elizabeth Reis and Matthew Dennis serendipitously living up the street, and Shane Minkin and Heiko Reinhard
in Somerville (thank you for the driveway), with the late, great Frankie and, at the very end, beloved Harry. It was utterly delightful to spend time again with Eva Moseley, and with Thomas Battle and Margaret Waters, and to make a new friend, Carla Kaplan, who instantly felt like an old friend. Thanks as well to Heather Sullivan and to our lovely downstairs neighbor, Ruth Beckwith.
As always, I thank Jody Goodman and Marc Fisher for making my Washington research so much more enjoyable, and Jody for a depth of dialogue that would be impossible with anyone else. The scholars and writers who double as good friends have my heartfelt gratitude as well: Barbara Walker, Dick Meyer, Judith Weisenfeld, Woody Register and Julie Berebitsky, Konstantin Dierks and Sarah Knott, Laura Gotkowitz and Michel Gobat, Kevin Mumford, Leslie Harris, Jürgen Martschukat, and Greg Downs. I also thank a number of longtime dear friends who had less to do with this book but whose friendships are ever-important: Marsha Rich, Lisa Tessler, Sheba Veghte, Sharon Achinstein, and Jamie Jamieson. Three people in particular listened with sympathy to the difficulties of meeting a sesquicentennial deadline: Linda Hodes (thank you for the homemade “Abe’s Night Out” card), Laurie Bernstein, and Bruce Dorsey.
An extended family has long sustained me. I thank my father, Stuart Hodes, Martha Graham dancer-turned-writer, at ninety; my mother, Linda Hodes, Martha Graham dancer-turned-artist; my ever-inspiring sisters, Catherine Hodes and Tal Ben-David; and Dalen Cole, Stephen Margolies, Elizabeth Hodes, Jack Gescheidt and Amy Pfaffman, Andy Gescheidt and Karen Balacek, Kevin Brady, Holly Richardson, Ken Tosti and David O’Keefe, Danielle Abrams, Betty and Dave Dorsey, Connie Cashman, Ruth and Chris Purcell, and Jon and Stacy Dorsey, plus the amazing next generation, Tim Dorsey and Sarah Dorsey, Matthew Choi, Julietta Cole, Quinn Brady, Katie Purcell, Tyler Dorsey, Evan Dorsey, Danielle Dorsey, Brian Kalousek and Holley Biroczky, Scott Kalousek, and Kailee Dorsey (with a special shout-out to Matt and Tim, whose childhood cast-offs became my muses).
I’ve saved the best for last. Bruce Dorsey understands my preoccupation with loss and grief as no one else ever will. His unending love and immeasurable kindness make me the luckiest person in the world and make my world radiant every day.
Page numbers in
italics
indicate illustrations.
and assassination,
95
,
101
–2,
104
,
108
,
114
,
128
,
129
,
145
,
160
,
227
,
252