MELVILL

A brilliant evocation, by Argentinian novelist Fresán, of the star-crossed family history of a canonical American writer.

“Call me Herman.” Such a commandment could come from only one writer, Herman Melville, who stands at the center of Fresán’s narrative. Occupying much of that space, too, albeit in sometimes spectral form, is Melville’s father, Allan Melvill (the -e a typo that his son, the victim of a bureaucrat’s pen, stuck with, even as, later in the novel, he notes ruefully that his obituary in Harper’s Monthly Magazine, where several of his stories appeared, will render his name as Henry). Allan, born to a Scottish family famed for “swords and shields and maces brandished in the name of savage monarchs whose castles were just giant stones,” is frequently revisited at a climacteric moment, when, desperately poor, he walks across an iced-over Hudson River to return to his starving family. It’s an image that haunts the grown-up Herman, who, Fresán conjectures, cast his father as a confidence man on a paddle wheeler, a lowly sailor on a whaling ship, an indifferent clerk who refuses to do his job. “It turns out to be almost as exhausting and distressing to trace his downward spiral as, I suppose, it was for my father to know himself pursued and persecuted,” Herman sighs. Fresán imagines Melville’s life as a quiet repudiation of his father’s, who was so proud that he refused to allow his wife, Herman’s mother, to borrow money from her aristocratic family. In the end, though, Allan accompanies his son’s every waking moment and haunts his dreams: “The ice is the unknown,” Herman, that great explorer of mysterious places and mores, says. Fresán’s fictional evocation of Melville’s youth is as convincingly realized as Frederick Busch’s The Night Inspector (2000), which neatly bookends it.

An elegant, meditative story about storytelling—for lives are, Fresán writes, “really, books of stories.”