Abraham Lincoln enters the American story as a silhouette before he becomes a figure—long-limbed, awkward, moving through a world of stumps and distances, carrying books as if they were tools and ideas as if they were debts. He is born in a Kentucky cabin that later generations will remake into a shrine and, later still, into a contested metaphor; his childhood is a short ledger of hard labor, thin schooling, and a frontier that measured intelligence by the quality of a fence. The family walks—first to Indiana, then to Illinois—because poverty is not merely a condition, it is an address, and sometimes the only way to improve it is to change the map. He grows in that American way: borrowing other men’s books, arguing with himself, turning chores into calisthenics for endurance, and discovering that his mind prefers the architecture of sentences to the arithmetic of acres. He reads the law the way a starving man reads menus, memorizes poetry to find rhythms stronger than weather, and learns in the rough legislature at Vandalia and Springfield that politics, for all its theatrical rage, is a patient craft built out of listening. The rail-splitter carpenter’s gift is not muscle; it is perspective. He can see through timber to the beam inside it, through crow