MARCE CATLETT

Kentucky farmer and writer Berry continues his cycle of Port William stories.

Marcellus Catlett, 43 years old, is a tobacco farmer, noble and stoic, out in the fields before dawn. It’s 1906, and he’s hauled in a fine crop, “prizing at last the cured and graded, appraised and cherished leaves into hogsheads that he sent by the railroad to the auction warehouse in Louisville.” Alas for Marce, James B. Duke’s American Tobacco Co. has cornered the market and is paying less than it costs to grow the stuff. “Its purchase, properly named, was theft,” writes Berry. It’s up to Marce’s young son, Wheeler, grown to manhood, to enlist the aid of the government to organize a farmers cooperative to wrest a fair price for their crop. Berry, as always, writes in simple but elegant language, celebrating rural lifeways: “Wheeler grew into the love of farming. He loved the days he worked to the end of, and from there looked back at the difference he had made.” Wheeler, like Marce, is also a born leader, brilliant and diligent, qualities that pass along to his descendants all the way up to the present day, when, Berry allows, tobacco isn’t much farmed anymore, given its carcinogenic qualities. Berry’s novel is very much of a piece with his celebrated essays on culture and agriculture, almost to the point of didacticism; what saves the book from becoming an extended sermon (“The industrial replacement of neighborhood by competition and technology moves everything worthy of love out of reach”) is Berry’s ability to construct a good story that circles through time, beginning and ending in the faraway past and showing plainly the habits of mind and work that have been undone by corporate rule, divorce from nature, and simple greed, “a mortal disease.”

Vintage Berry, elegiac and elegant, with a profound sense of all that has been lost.