Joplin's Ghost

 

I thought it would be interesting to follow Ragtime with another book that had Scott Joplin as a touchstone. Tananarive Due published Joplin's Ghost in 2005, thirty years after E. L. Doctorow published Ragtime. She notes in an afterword that the stories a curator of Joplin's house shared with her became the kernel of the book. Due has won the American Book Award and the British Fantasy Award. Like Doctorow, she is a professor. Due, like Joplin, is Black. We have books from different times, different authors, and different genres with one composer and performer as a common element. 

A small detour into titles: Ragtime points at Joplin indirectly, by mentioning the musical style largely associated with him; Joplin's Ghost includes his name, a direct target. 

I'll let you draw any further comparisons yourself. Feel free to look back at the previous First Sentences post. I'm eager to dig into Due's specific words.

Here we have one and possibly two people, a very specific place, two uncommon verbs, and a situation that is curious at minimum and possibly quite ominous. 

First we have the new arrival. He is confined to a wheelchair, yet active enough to move himself. He is in a hospital – not just any hospital – Manhattan State Hospital on Ward Island. Notice the words "State" "Ward" and "day room" – I don't know the history of this specific hospital, but these words suggest confinement, inability to pay bills, and perhaps mental illness. These very exact words tell us that the author has a place in mind – she has done some research and filled out the world of her story. 

Then we have a dead wife. Is a ghost a person? Or could she be a hallucination or delusion? There are already signs the mind of the new arrival may not be clear. The ghost casts his state in further doubt. She walks beside him, in itself a benign activity – but we have trouble trusting the dead when they remain. And "always" also seems worrisome, on second thought. To say you'll stay by someone always is romantic in the abstract – to remain, constantly, beyond death, crosses the line to creepy. 

He whispers to her, as if he has something to hide. 

"Wheeled" is the first uncommon verb. "Whispering" is the second. They share the starting "wh" sound, a poetic touch. Look at the other words that start with "w" – Ward's, wife, walked. Both "wh" and "w" are rich on the lips, and the shared starting consonants – alliteration – ties these two sets of words together. 

For all the new arrival may be the haunted inmate of an asylum, the sentence remains fairly detached. No adjectives or adverbs express emotion or sensation. If the new arrival is afraid, or angry, or chilled, we do not know it. If the day room is gloomy or ominous or seems to press upon the new arrival, that remains unsaid. What's here could be simple facts – the wife is dead, she is always there, the man wheels through this particular room in this particular hospital on this particular island, whispering to her. We are left make our own interpretations of these facts – and left to wonder what will come next. 

Tananarive Due's sentence opens the door on a curious scene. I'm ready to step through into her world. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert