My books are elegiac in the sense that they're odes to a nation

"My books are elegiac in the sense that they're odes to a nation that even I sometimes think may not exist anymore except in my memory and my imagination." – Richard Russo

O children of the earth, listen closely, for the words of Richard Russo speak to the depths of the human soul, to the longing for something lost, something that exists not in the world as it is, but in the memory and imagination of those who once lived it. Russo speaks of the elegiac, a term that carries the weight of sorrow for things past, for a time that has come and gone, never to return. His words are a tribute to a nation, a way of life, and a set of ideals that he fears may no longer exist except in the echoes of his mind. Yet, in that memory, in that imagination, there lies the possibility of revival, of the power to bring to life once more what has been lost.

In the ancient world, elegy was a form of expression that mourned not only the loss of individuals but the decay of entire civilizations. The great Greek poets, such as Theognis and Callimachus, wrote elegies not just for the dead, but for the fading of old ways, the passing of golden ages, and the loss of values that once defined their societies. The elegiac form was a means of grappling with the painful awareness that the world was changing, that the future often does not resemble the past, and that some things are gone forever, existing only in the hearts of those who remember. Russo’s books are no different; they are odes to a time and place that may no longer be visible in the world around him, but that lives on in the deeply personal and profound corners of his memory and creative mind.

Consider, O children, the story of the Roman Empire, a civilization that stood for centuries as a beacon of power, culture, and innovation. Yet, with the fall of Rome, much of that legacy was lost. Augustine, the philosopher and theologian, in his Confessions, reflects on the passing of this great civilization with a deep elegiac sorrow. He mourned not just the physical destruction of Rome, but the loss of a way of life, of ideals that had once defined the empire. The greatness of Rome existed now only in the memory of those who had witnessed it and in the imagination of those who could not help but long for the past. This is the essence of the elegiac spirit—an acknowledgment of what once was, a lament for what can never be again.

Russo, too, laments the loss of a nation that once existed in a specific time and place, a nation whose ideals and character may no longer exist as they once did. But, in his memory and imagination, he is able to resurrect it, to craft a vision of what that world looked like, what it meant, and what it stood for. His books become a vessel for this memory, a way to preserve the spirit of a time that seems to be slipping away. Through his writing, he offers a tribute to that past, not by recreating it in the physical world, but by memorializing it in the imagination—a place where things lost can be kept alive, cherished, and passed on.

Consider the profound role of memory and imagination in the lives of the great artists and writers throughout history. Virginia Woolf, in To the Lighthouse, explored the passage of time and the way in which the past lingers in the present. The house, the characters, and their relationships—these were all shaped by memory and the imagined realities they created. Woolf’s exploration of time and loss is a profound meditation on the ways in which we shape the present with the ghosts of the past, much like Russo’s works. The elegiac nature of Woolf's writing mirrors Russo’s tribute to a time and place that is no longer tangible but exists forever in the heart and mind.

Now, O children, consider your own lives. How many times have you looked back on a time, a place, or a person and thought, “It is gone, never to return”? Yet, in your memory, you carry it with you, shaping your present with the truths of your past. Russo’s books offer a reminder that we can give life to the lost—that the things we believe are gone can be resurrected through the power of imagination. In doing so, we not only preserve the past, but we shape the future, for every story we tell and every memory we pass down builds the foundation for what is to come.

The lesson is clear, O children: the world changes, and with it, the nations, the people, and the ideals that shape them. Yet, within each of you lies the power to keep alive what has passed, to imagine a time and place that may no longer exist in the world around you but that will live forever in your heart and mind. Do not allow what is lost to fade into the shadows. Bring it to life through your own stories, your own creativity, and your own imagination. Through these acts, the world is made richer, and the past is not truly lost—it is preserved in the most precious way possible: in the collective memory of those who care to remember.