The beautiful word “Shenandoah,” of unknown Native American origin, stands for a river and an opulently green valley. Willa Cather’s Virginia forebears on both sides had been there for four generations. Winchester township, seat of Frederick County, lies along the old turnpike between North and South and repeatedly changed hands in the course of the Civil War. Willa’s grandfather William Cather, of Welsh ancestry, had stayed resolutely Unionist. Her mother’s people, the Boaks, were secessionists. Her uncle William Seibert Boak had died of his wounds at Manassas. Willa’s mother, Virginia Boak Cather, revered the memory of this nineteen-year-old, her favorite brother, and kept his saber and Confederate flag with her always.

In Sapphira and the Slave Girl (1940), Cather’s final novel, published seven years prior to her death, she re-created the antebellum world of her grandparents. The setting is Back Creek, where her mother’s people, the Boaks (Blakes in the novel), had been long settled. The year of the novel is 1856. Sapphira Dodderidge Colbert, a dropsical invalid, fears that her husband, Henry, is on the verge of having an affair with their “half-caste” housemaid, Nancy, and wishes to sell the girl. Sapphira’s adult daughter—the warmhearted heroine of this otherwise chilly book—arranges for Nancy to escape across the Potomac and on to Canada via the underground railroad.

There is substance to Toni Morrison’s objection that the novel submits its Black heroine to the white gaze of the Colberts; she is understood only from without. Yet in the end it is she, the slave girl, and Till, her mother—subject to the barbarity of the peculiar institution—who emerge as the only unmarred persons in the book. The moral mutilation of having owned chattel persists among the whites, an indelible sin. In the epilogue Nancy returns decades later to visit her former owners. Just such a visitation was among Willa’s earliest memories. It is as though she had all along been treasuring it up for last. “In this book my end was my beginning,” she wrote to Alexander Woollcott. What she knew during the first nine years of life was Back Creek and its environs and nothing beyond. The return of Nancy must have seemed to the little girl a visionary event.

Edith Lewis felt Sapphira had been catalyzed by the deaths of Charles Cather, her father, and, three years later, her mother, Virginia Boak Cather. In relative old age Willa brought all powers to bear on her remotest family recollections, the scenes of early childhood. The valley of the Shenandoah, little on her mind for decades, grew luminous.

Lands west of the Missouri were a strong lure for Virginians in the aftermath of the Civil War. Congress had passed the Homestead Act in 1862; if you were white and male there was land for the taking. As Woodress writes: “A man could plow a straight furrow as far as the horizon, and the rich top soil was said to be twelve feet deep.” This idealism would come up against the unforgiving reality of heat waves cooking the corn in its tassel, grasshopper invasions, howling winters—and the fundamental obduracy of a wild soil never before tilled, shaggy with the high red grass that covered plains as yet unbroken by any plow. Such had been the immemorial homeland of the hunting-and-gathering Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, and other Indigenous nations. Such was the original West the first homesteaders came to. Its stubbornness was a trick nature played on the first settlers (some of whom gave up and went back to where they’d come from, or died by suicide, like Mr. Shimerda, Ántonia’s father, in My Ántonia). Here is how Alexandra Bergson puts it in O Pioneers!: “The land did it. It had its little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody knew how to work it right: and then, all at once, it worked itself. It woke up out of its sleep.” The sea of grass that had covered for numberless ages the landmass from the Missouri to the Rockies became in the course of several decades a breadbasket to the world.

Cather was not slow to note the compensations of the fierce new land: flower-laden springtimes and, above all, brilliant crisp autumns. “In the newest part of the New World,” she wrote in her essay on Nebraska, “autumn is the season of beauty and sentiment, as spring is in the Old World.” By 1882, the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad was running between Chicago and Denver. Red Cloud was a division point along the line, with its newspapers, banks, stores and hotels, smithy and mill. In Webster County, by the time of Willa’s arrival in 1882, there were more immigrants than native stock. She heard a variety of languages and seems to have embraced the confusion almost immediately. After all, she was an immigrant too, and suddenly a member of a minority: the Anglo-Saxon homesteaders.

In the course of the first year on the Divide—as the high ground between the Republican and the Little Blue Rivers and between the Little Blue and the Platte are known—she thought she’d die of homesickness for northern Virginia with its rolling hills and temperate weather. She and the new land— “as naked as the back of your hand”—had it out before she came to love it. Then the desert place became home.

The babel of Scandinavians and Central Europeans and Frenchmen and more captivated her. In this unlikely place she became a citizen of the world. She would say in a 1913 interview: “We had very few American neighbors. They were mostly Swedes and Danes, Norwegians and Bohemians. I liked them from the first and they made up for what I missed in the country. I particularly liked the old women; they understood my homesickness and were kind to me…These old women on the farms were the first people who ever gave me the real feeling of an older world across the sea. Even when they spoke very little English, the old women somehow managed to tell me a great many stories about the old country. They talked more freely to a child than to grown people…I have never found any intellectual excitement any more intense than I used to feel when I spent a morning with one of these old women at her baking or butter-making. I used to ride home in the most unreasonable state of excitement; I always felt…as if I had got inside another person’s skin.”

Farm life in rural Webster County did not suit Charles Cather, and after eighteen months he moved his family from the Divide to Red Cloud proper. Having raised sheep in Virginia, he seemed to have found raising hogs and cattle and breaking the soil in Nebraska more than he could handle. In Red Cloud he established a farm loan, insurance, and real-estate concern and made a go of it. That was the autumn of 1884, the year Willa turned eleven. The town would be transubstantiated into Hanover in O Pioneers!, Moonstone in The Song of the Lark, Black Hawk in My Ántonia, Frankfort in One of Ours, Sweet Water in A Lost Lady, and Haverford in Lucy Gayheart. Thus Cather kept faith with the genius loci of her youth.

Her parents purchased a story-and-a-half frame house on the southwest corner of Third and Cedar, and crowded their growing family of children—Willa, Roscoe, Douglass, Elsie—and Mrs. Cather’s mother, and a servant girl, into it. Three more children, John, Jessica, and James, were shortly to follow.

The children slept dormitory-style in the narrow upstairs until Willa, as eldest, got a room of her own—one corner of the L-shaped attic. This became her sanctuary, her solitary reprieve from gregarious family existence. “One realizes,” she writes, “that even in harmonious families there is this double life: the group life, which is the one we can observe in our neighbor’s household, and, underneath, another—secret and passionate and intense—which is the real life that stamps the faces and gives character to the voices of our friends. Always in his mind each member of these social units is escaping, running away, trying to break the net, which circumstances and his own affections have woven around him. One realizes human relations are the tragic necessity of human life; that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half the time greedily seeking them, and half the time running away from them.” These extraordinary insights are from Cather’s admiring essay on Katherine Mansfield—with whom she shared a desire to capture definitively the way of life of the childhood place (in Mansfield’s case New Zealand) that neither could wait to escape.

The elder personalities of Red Cloud proved nearly as influential on her as family. There was, for example, the Englishman William Ducker, outwardly a failure, who clerked in his prosperous brother’s dry goods store and in the evenings read Virgil, Ovid, Homer, and Anacreon with Willa. She would arrive at the University of Nebraska with a solid grounding in classical languages. Ducker was an amateur scientist as well, with a laboratory fitted up at home. Willa assisted him at his experiments. He was her first encounter with a freethinker and set the pattern for her own intellectual outlook. Edith Lewis reports that one afternoon “she was accompanying him home, and he said to her ‘It’s just as if the lights were going out, Willie.’ After she left him a child came running to call her back. She found Mr. Ducker dead, a copy of the Iliad lying open on the floor beside him.”

There was Dr. Robert Damerell, a local physician who took Willa along on his rounds. Present at the amputation of a young boy’s leg, she was proudly unfazed. It was in these years that she announced her ambition to be a doctor.

And there was Norwegian-born Julia Miner, mother of the Miner sisters. The Miners would be among Willa’s lifelong friends. Mrs. Miner was musically gifted and gave Willa her thrilling first exposure to music. Mrs. Miner would be the prototype for Mrs. Harling in My Ántonia: “Her rapid foot- steps shook her own floor and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all the everyday occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and house-cleaning was like a revolution.”

Willa graduated from Red Cloud High School in June 1890. She came first in a class of three and accordingly delivered the valedictory address. Her spirited theme was “Investigation versus Superstition.” She hailed the former and damned the latter. “Since investigation,” she declared, “first led man forth on that great search for truth which has prompted all his progress, superstition—, the stern Pharaoh of his former bondage—, has followed him, retarding every step of the advancement.” For its framing of large concepts, its intellectual assurance, its sheer élan, the address would be extraordinary as a college valedictory. In one as young as Willa, here only sixteen, it is unnerving: “There is another book of God than that of scriptural revelation,” she declared to her audience, “a book written in chapters of creation upon the pages of the universe bound by mystery.”

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Excerpted from Chasing Bright Medusas: A Life of Willa Cather by Benjamin Taylor. Copyright © 2023. Published by arrangement with Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

To say Philip Roth stopped writing is inaccurate. He stopped making art. But his old way of coping with any embattlement, to sit down to the keyboard, continued in the years of his retirement. The underside of his greatness swarmed with grievances time had not assuaged. He couldn’t stop litigating the past and produced over a thousand pages of—well, what to call it?—self-justification in those years, all of which I read.

He’d been giving me typescripts and manuscripts since we met, a habit that accelerated. Sometimes these would be birthday gifts, sometimes gifts for no occasion. Sometimes he’d make jokes about the market value of such items when he inscribed them: “For your old age!” Sometimes he’d rather solemnly address me as if I were his archivist.

On one occasion he handed me a full-scale book called “Notes for My Biographer,” which would shortly be announced for publication before being withdrawn. The text is a point-by-point effort, frequently self-deceiving, to refute all of Claire Bloom’s charges against him in Leaving a Doll’s House, whose publication Philip counted among the worst catastrophes of his life and credited with his failure to win the Nobel. She’d assailed him and he needed to defend his moral reputation, pocked and homely though it was.

Another typescript, entitled in some copies “Notes on a Scandal Monger,” sought to even the score with his earliest anointed biographer and afterward ex-friend, Ross Miller, dedicatee of The Human Stain, who he felt had betrayed him by failing to work effectively and in a timely way on the project. People who should have been interviewed died off while Ross dithered. This is the sad tale of someone handed a job for which he was ill-equipped. And then featured as a villain. Ross was no villain, only a literary amateur, and it pained me to hear Philip go on about him as if he were Iago. “You cast him in a role much too large,” I said more than once. “He wasn’t malevolent, only not up to the task.” But as with Maggie and Claire and Francine, so with Ross: The appetite for vengeance was insatiable. Philip could not get enough of getting even.

He gave me both these bulky typescripts, the fruits of his retirement. After withdrawing “Notes for My Biographer,” he asked me to destroy my copy. I returned it to him instead. “Notes on a Scandal Monger” (it does not bear this title in my version) I kept with the mass of other documents in my Roth file.

What to do with such things when an author dies? There are essentially three possibilities: You can throw them away. You can leave them to the misunderstanding or neglect of heirs. Or you can get them to an institution that knows how to care for such things. I deeded my entire collection to the Manuscripts Division of Princeton’s Firestone Library. Parting with it put a calm in me. I knew the papers would be secure for as long as Princeton stood, as safe there as if they were Whitman’s or Melville’s.

Notable in Claire Bloom’s bill of particulars was her allegation that Philip’s ailments were sometimes imaginary. But I was one of his medical proxies and can testify that they were all terrifyingly real and that his stoicism in the face of them was beyond what I, whose rude health he admired and teased me about, could have summoned. Still, there were limits. He liked to quote an unemphatic line from Hemingway’s “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”: “He could stand pain as well as any man, until it went on too long, and wore him out.”

It was in basic training at Fort Dix that a first and lasting injury befell him. “Another grunt and I were on KP and carrying a large kettle of potatoes. He dropped his end, causing me to wrench my back. I saw stars and felt a searing pain. It was this injury that led to my honorable discharge after one year.”

“You know, when my father died I wanted an honor guard at his funeral. They asked first to see the discharge. I looked in drawer after drawer and file after file and finally I found it in his billfold. He’d been carrying it on his person since the autumn of ’45.”

“I understand that perfectly. Whatever else lay ahead, I felt my honorable discharge was a plaudit that could never be taken from me—however lamed I was, arriving at the University of Chicago the following year in agony and with a back brace under my Brooks Brothers suit.”

It was the start of a history that would lead from surgery to surgery, including three spinal fusions in the last fifteen years of his life. He said the third, which restored an inch or two of the height he’d been losing, made him feel he was carrying inside himself a replica of the Eiffel Tower.

I’d been instructed beforehand to test his recall after each of the anesthesias. More than anything he feared cognitive loss. “Philip, who was FDR’s Secretary of Labor?” I asked him in recovery.

“Frances Perkins.”

“And of the Interior?”

“Harold Ickes.”

“Remember his middle initial?”

“L.”

“You’re all there.”

He then proceeded to his usual test of himself, the prologue to The Canterbury Tales: “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote / The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,” and so on for some lines more.

Prescribed painkillers in ever larger doses produced expectable results. The fentanyl patch he wore was crazy-making. In combination with other culprits it drove him over the edge. One night in the country, at about three o’clock in the morning, he entered the guest bedroom and said, in tears, “Ben, can you find out for me if I’m awake or asleep? Can we call somebody to find out?” I walked him back to his room and stayed till sunup.

Withdrawal from fentanyl and other narcotic analgesics would be the great unspoken trial of Philip’s old age, an additional illness.

Add to it the epic struggle with heart disease. When told in 1982 that he had a fraction of normal cardiac function, he began the ritual of putting all his work in clear order at the end of each working day, not knowing if he’d return. “I was more afraid for the work in progress than for myself,” he told me. He kept the knowledge of this Damoclean sword almost entirely to himself. The humiliation of impotence, a side effect of the beta-blocker he was given, was not the least of his anguish. He begged for bypass surgery but was repeatedly told he was not a candidate.

Then in August of 1989, at 56, after swimming only the first of his afternoon laps, he felt overwhelmed and in immediate peril and wondered if he might actually precede his dying father to the grave. Twenty-four hours later, a quintuple bypass was performed at New York Hospital. Philip felt newborn. “I would smile to myself in the hospital bed at night,” he writes in Patrimony, “envisioning my heart as a tiny infant suckling itself on this blood coursing unobstructed now through the newly attached arteries borrowed from my leg. This, I thought, is what the thrill must be like nursing one’s own infant—the strident, dreamlike postoperative heartbeat was not mine but its.” There in the ICU he’d won the goal of happiness complete. He was free of the time bomb that had been ticking in his chest.

This new leasehold was also the proximate cause of a creative rebirth, probably the greatest in American literary history. What followed the experimentation of The Counterlife and Deception (a minor, radio play–like novel completed shortly before his bypass) was a sequence of masterpieces: Patrimony, Operation Shylock, Sabbath’s Theater, American Pastoral, I Married a Communist, The Human Stain, The Dying Animal, The Plot Against America, Everyman, Indignation, Exit Ghost and more, including his masterly last bow, Nemesis.

Further cardiac procedures followed. In 1998, he was back at New York Hospital for renal artery angioplasty and insertion of a stent. The following year, his left carotid artery was opened. A year after that came another angioplasty and stent insertion. In 2003, he was transferred in terrible pain from Charlotte Hungerford Hospital in Torrington to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, an event he loved describing: the rickety old ambulance, the bumpkin drivers. They’d never been to New York and Philip had to shout directions the whole way. They unloaded him, still in a hospital gown and on his gurney, at Lexington and Seventieth. “Is this neighborhood safe?” they asked. Curious passersby stopped to stare. Only the usual autograph hound was lacking. This indignity went on for fifteen long minutes before the drivers figured out that Lenox Hill was one block over and six up.

Next day, a defibrillator was installed, a raised rectangle about the size of a pack of cigarettes under the skin of his chest. “What do I need this thing for?” he used to say, skeptical of its merits. “I need this thing like a bus needs a parachute.” Then one evening he fibrillated and the thing went off, knocking him for a loop and restoring his heartbeat. He got the picture of what it was for, even grew fond of it. When the mechanism wore out and had to be replaced he said he was going to sell the old one on eBay. “Could get a pret-ty penny for it.”

Philip required more and more angioplasties and stents. Then, in 2013, it became clear that his ramus and LAD arteries were completely occluded. He was once again a walking bomb. Three or four interventions reopened both. Further interventions were required to reopen them yet again.

His doctors never felt these were losing battles. Cardiologists are optimistic, can-do people and Philip’s were among the best. In September of 2016 his aortic valve was replaced with either a bovine- or porcine-based substitute. I could never get that part straight. I asked in some trepidation about the body rejecting such tissue and was told the chances were zero. For some reason though, the idea of a piece of pig or cow in his heart kept me up nights.

I should have been worried about other things. The recuperation did not go smoothly. By early November he was back in New York-Presbyterian to treat blood clots that had formed on the leaflets of the new valve. On the evening of November 8, I breezed in with the word on the street: It would be an early night with Hillary taking Florida and Pennsylvania and Michigan.

He gave me a torpid look and said, “I’m scared.”

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From Here We Are: My Friendship With Philip Roth by Benjamin Taylor, to be published in May by Penguin, an imprint of the Penguin Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC Copyright (c) 2020 by Benjamin Taylor.