This book grew out of one of those trips to the library, when just by
happenstance I pulled a copy of Leslie Fiedler’s Love and Death in the
American Novel from the shelves and found the beginnings of what
wouldbecome RaisingtheDead.Buthappenstanceisasmallgiftforthe
unaware, and I was not so lucky. The rough seed of this book germi-
nated in the winter of 1988, when my father died from a self-inflicted
wound during my first year of graduate school. It was an event that
lenceandawedbytheinsightsitprovided.IrereadMorrison’s Beloved
andsaw thepotentialfor areadingof deathand thedeadin thatwork
ing, and I began to search for an open door, for critical intervention in
the ‘‘space of death’’ in which I suddenly traveled.
Of all those in Ann Arbor who chose to travel with me, I’d like to
thank Cathy Cohen, Michelle Johnson, Meghan Lewis, and Wasentha
Young, who were there in the beginning along with my advisers and
I’d also like to thank the CIC Fellowship Office at the University of
mer of 1991 allowed me to travel to Belcourt, North Dakota; Kyle,
South Dakota; Laguna Pueblo, New Mexico; and Albuquerque, New
Mexico, to connect with scholars and writers there. During that jour-
ney I met Mari Scout’s Enemy, Alfonso Ortiz, and Jolean Peltier, all of
on and off the reservation. A special thanks to Marjorie Levinson,
Richard Harris, Olivia, and Cecily—your love (and food) during my
last year in Ann Arbor literally kept me on my feet. Thanks also to
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