The Known World by Edward P. Jones landed on my TBR when I heard him interviewed by Eleanor Wachtel on “Writers & Company”. More than twenty years ago. But Jones was recently named for The Paris Review’s Hadada Award (nominated, received), and I determined this spring would see it done.

Now I’ve read everything, and I thought I would feel sad about that, but The Known World (2023) was so satisfying, that I can’t help but think about how rewarding it will be to reread. And this I know to be true, because I already had to reread the first thirty-nine pages twice. (The third time really was the charm.)

Speaking of it to another reader, when I was grieving having finished it, they said they’d read it about fifteen years ago and found it an “almighty struggle”. It made me laugh in recognition, because I can see how it would read that way (and “almighty” is the perfect word choice, because it whispers of the fact that Jones often writes about church-going folk—which is not normally My Thing either, so don’t let that put you off).

Actually, when I found myself rereading, I wondered about how much I was struggling too. Each sentence seemed to birth new generations of phrases, a swell of detail. But after rereading, I could see what was tripping me up, and it was actually one of the elements I most enjoyed about the novel in the end. More on that soon. (Being an “almighty struggle” didn’t put my reader-friend off either, not entirely; they bought another of his books later on. Feel free to claim your phrasing, if you’re so inclined.)

Libraries likely shelve this novel with one of those little crown stickers on the spine, but this is not like other historical fiction, in that you can’t tell whether Jones has researched for two minutes or two decades: his characters simply exist, and that’s that. However, it’s also deeply significant that the novel opens in 1855 in the state of Virginia, where and when it’s still legal to enslave and own other human beings as property, with the death of a plantation owner.

A good bit of the novel takes place in the decades prior to that, however, and leaving that description all loose is deliberate, because the web of relationships is extensive. This is where Jones nearly lost me this spring, with that expanse, both breadth and depth. Directly after reading an extensive scene, he would end with a couple of summary sentences that redirect entirely—by mentioning another plantation, or another character, or another generation.

Was I even paying attention? I’d squint, flip back and forward some pages, work to reorient myself, and still find myself just as puzzled. But all I had to do was carry on, to read, and to trust. Jones knows exactly what he’s doing: dropping that little bit, like some cinnamon in a brew of coffee, inviting you to carry on and see how it all comes together. He will tell you what you need to know, in due time. In due time.

This, it turns out, is exactly what I most value about Jones’ storytelling: his assured voice, his authority. For me, this feels different than believing a story is true, trusting that a story is being told with integrity: it feels like more. But I nearly missed it, and I think that’s because I usually have several books underway (so that one of them will suit any variety of moods, whenever I want to read); the third time I read these opening pages, it was the only modern novel in my stacks (because I was cleaning up my at-home stack, preparing to return to regular library loans) and I simply absorbed what was set before me.

But even if an authoritative storytelling voice isn’t something you crave in a novel, Jones’ story could appeal for its substance alone. In that, however many books you’ve read about slavery in 19th-century America, you’ve not read about Henry Townsend, who was once enslaved—until his parents purchased his freedom—but became a slave-owner himself. Anyone who enjoys a nuanced tale that presses all the sore spots of morality will appreciate how intricately and intimately Jones develops his characters and their relationships.

Many times, after reading a certain passage, I would pause and consider flagging it to record it later; but, in the end, I only marked this bit.

“Is all right,” Luke said. I’ll sit with you, Luke said. Is all right. I’ma sit with you until all them hants leave you alone. I ain’t afraid of no hants.”

Luke’s name is one that appears in the middle of a chapter about something else entirely, like an ornament dragged by the cat from the Christmas tree. It’s one of those instances that got me squinting, frowning: Luke, who? Flipping around, looking for Luke. But eventually—it felt like years later, but was maybe two chapters—readers meet Luke and witness this scene, which I didn’t flag for its rhythms (speech of both Black and white characters is depicted like it sounds, but the bulk of the novel is exposition, with short phrases and quick exchanges).

And the scene itself is a hard one to read, and whatever you’re thinking is probably a reason that one could use for justifying not reading novels like this—all stories like this—because humans have the capacity to treat other creatures abominably.

But Luke’s presence is a balm, and the set-up for his emergence into the novel (that earlier aside, arriving out of the blue, a reminder that everyone is a supplementary character in relationship to other characters) had you thinking it wouldn’t be the small miracle that it turns out to be.

I kept the book on my desk for weeks, when I finally determined that it deserved to be back in its proper place on the shelf, because this one will be in my permanent collection.

It would be a desert-island read for me, and I could marvel endlessly, at how he shifts through time and space, through egregious and graceful scenes that he has ordered in absolutely the only way they could and should be told. (And I should have known. Because I’ve written about Edward P. Jones before.)

Although it is, also, an “almighty struggle”. Perhaps all the best books are?