The Song of the Lark

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There are a few short stories which, once read, continue to haunt the reader. "Sredni Vashtar" by Saki, "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut, "The Selfish Giant" by Oscar Wilde and others, by virtue of a combination of unforgettable story and masterful craftsmanship, leave behind a permanent psychic mark. "Paul's Case," the first short story I ever read by Willa Cather, left such a mark on me. Cather's descriptive prose conveyed Paul's loathing for his harsh, prosaic existence and his yearning for cosmopolitan sophistication so perfectly that, halfway through the story, I was primed to abscond to New York with my employer's money and enjoy a week of hothouse luxury. But I also knew, with a sense of disquiet, that Paul's story would not end happily.

Considering the sweet sting of the mental scar I still carry from "Paul's Case," I'm not sure why I didn't seek out more of Cather's writing—but for whatever reason, it wasn't until college that I picked up one of her books. The first few pages of The Song of the Lark contained the same familiar, lyrical sweep of words, and I realized "Paul's Case" had not been a fluke.

The Song of the Lark focuses on the early life of Thea Kronborg, a bright, talented child of Swedish immigrant parents living in the prairie town of Moonstone, Colorado. Thea instinctively strikes many of those around her as special in some way, though very few of them realize she is destined to become a gifted singer.

It's not at all surprising that Willa Cather chose to write about the journey of a young artist toward the ultimate fulfillment of her potential. Cather herself was a gifted writer with a mind to capture the most telling details of a character, and an ear for lyrical description. Consider her almost toss-away mention of the European linden growing behind the Kohlers' house—a tree "which has honey-colored blooms in summer, with a fragrance that surpasses all trees and flowers and drives young people wild with joy." She wrote lovingly of the immigrant families settling in Moonstone, the refined bits of Old World life they preserved and treasured in the dry prairies of the American West. Although text does not allow us to hear Thea's voice, Cather's prose is of a quality that leads one to believe one would instinctively recognize Thea's singing from her description.

Having grown up in the same kind of prairie town, Cather gently reminds us through her writing that human nature has not changed. She never resorts to stock characters; her people are as real as your friends and neighbors. "People are pretty much the same everywhere," says young Dr. Archie, and he is right—her characters reflect the same love, meanness, troubles with the generation gap, substance abuse, mental illness, and other human feelings and failings that we see in the modern world.

One of the many things I appreciate about Willa Cather's writing is that she sidestepped the modern tendency to focus on mere possibility. One of the quirks of current American society is a strange infatuation with the budding of youth and potential, eclipsing the flower of maturity and full realization of that potential. We forget that potential means nothing if it is not realized in some way, like a dried rosebud which never bloomed. Although she had plenty to say about Thea's formative years, Cather did not merely set Thea on the path to her destiny. We see from the outset that Thea has intelligence, talent, a steel backbone and a drive to succeed—but best of all, we are allowed to see what she actually accomplishes with these abilities.

If you haven't already had a chance to read Willa Cather's work, now is an excellent time. Summer is coming on fast, and for those with summer vacations it's a prime chance to dive into the beautifully articulated world of Thea and her growth into a singing diva.

It'll give you the kind of scar you'll be proud to bear.

All material displayed on this website is © 2001-2009 by S. B. Houghton, writing under the alias "The Pirate King." All rights reserved.
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