The Library Annex

The young man, who does not know the future, sees life as a kind of epic adventure, an Odyssey through strange seas and unknown islands, where he will test and prove his powers, and thereby discover his immortality. The man of middle years, who has lived the future that he once dreamed, sees life as a tragedy; for he has learned that his power, however great, will not prevail against those forces of accident and nature to which he gives the names of gods, and has learned that he is mortal. But the man of age, if he plays his assigned role properly, must see life as a comedy. For his triumphs and his failures merge, and one is no more occassion for pride or shame than the other; and he is neither the hero who proves himself against these forces, nor the protagonist who is destroyed by them. Like any poor, pitiable shell of an actor, he comes to see that he has played so many parts that there no longer is himself.

Dear reader,

Upon finishing John Williams’ Augustus, I find myself enjoying the contemplation of it moreso than the prospect of writing an analysis of it. To my mind, Williams has ventured to illustrate a life, all of our lives, through the lens of one of the most powerful men the world has accidentally birthed. Ironically, Williams does not provide this life a voice until the third section of the novel; a section that has left me somewhat stunned and speechless. Therefore, I will not sully the joy of discovering that voice for yourself, but rather laud Williams’ choices in creating this work and endeavor to link them to their uncanny results.

I expected to read a cinematic epic not unlike Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels or even something by Alexandre Dumas. Instead, Williams chooses to use the epistolary form to formulate the narrative of Octavius Caesar’s life. Because of this, that narrative is primarily heard by voices other than Octavius. If Williams would have chosen a third-person perspective, ultimately his own voice, one could argue that the reader would find themselves even further removed from the subject; although likely appeased by entertainment value. Thankfully, Williams forms his fiction like a secondary source research project in which the researcher retains the freedom to draw their own conclusions about the subject.

Delving deeper, the epistolary form also forces the reader to think about the value they wish to extract from their efforts. After all, the book is not a research project but historical fiction. I believe Williams intends to convey a truth behind facts and historicity; a truth about life, as all great fiction most successfully reveals. As Octavius said:

And just as the acts of my life have done, so these words must conceal at least as much truth as they display; the truth will lie somewhere beneath these graven words, in the dense stone which they will encircle. And this too is appropriate; for much of my life has been lived in such secrecy. It has never been politic for me to let another know my heart.

But did he say that? The better question is: Does it matter? Octavius’ words within this book are truths which Williams wishes to uncover; if for no other reason than for readers to contemplate. That truth is that we are mysteries unto ourselves and we are doomed to contemplate that mystery for all time.

Similiarly, Williams breaths life into Julia, Octavius’ beloved daughter, and explores her voice in contemplating her choices and position. The fictional excerpts from Julia’s journals, in addition to Octavius’ letter to Nicolaus of Damascus that make up the entire third section, are the absolute best parts of the book. The second hand research material relents to the primary sources and the intimate reveal of their persons, not their acts. Not surprisingly, their contemplation and view on their positions, choices and natures stike similar chords. They each articulate the division of body and self, of sacrifice and obligation, the world’s demands and their human needs. In completely different positions orchestrated by the world, the reader finds similarities and ultimately the tragedy of their dissection from each other.

And yet, despite the promised reality of the epistolary form, the reader, I think, still feels a sense of mystery. When enveloped in the intamacy of these voices, one understands how much of a mystery they yet are to themselves. Yet this should not discourage readers. Is this not true of all people? Williams defies people’s expectations of historicity and instead infuses the truth we all struggle with; that we are mysteries unto ourselves. Therefore, we do not glean any grand solution, missing historical puzzle pieces, or potential linking ideas from this book, but rather a kinship with its subjects through common mystery and remaking of ourselves.

Williams had to choose how to construct this book. When making that choice, I believe he had to clearly identify his real purpose for writing it. I do not believe that he wants to glorify Octavius Caesar, instead I think he wants to illustrate him as a man not unlike ourselves. I do not think he wants to condemn Julia, I think he wants to humanize her beyond her political station for our sake. In fact, I do not think he writes about Octavius, or Marcus Antonius, or Marcus Agrippa, or Julia or any of the other ancient Roman characters in this drama. I think he writes about you, the common pondering we all have with our place in the world and the mystery of ourselves.