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Gilead: A Novel Paperback – January 10, 2006
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In 1981, Marilynne Robinson wrote Housekeeping, which won the PEN/Hemingway Award and became a modern classic. Since then, she has written two pieces of nonfiction: Mother Country and The Death of Adam. With Gilead, we have, at last, another work of fiction. As with The Great Fire, Shirley Hazzards's return, 22 years after The Transit of Venus, it was worth the long wait. Books such as these take time, and thought, and a certain kind of genius. There are no invidious comparisons to be made. Robinson's books are unalike in every way but one: the same incisive thought and careful prose illuminate both.
The narrator, John Ames, is 76, a preacher who has lived almost all of his life in Gilead, Iowa. He is writing a letter to his almost seven-year-old son, the blessing of his second marriage. It is a summing-up, an apologia, a consideration of his life. Robinson takes the story away from being simply the reminiscences of one man and moves it into the realm of a meditation on fathers and children, particularly sons, on faith, and on the imperfectability of man.
The reason for the letter is Ames's failing health. He wants to leave an account of himself for this son who will never really know him. His greatest regret is that he hasn't much to leave them, in worldly terms. "Your mother told you I'm writing your begats, and you seemed very pleased with the idea. Well, then. What should I record for you?" In the course of the narrative, John Ames records himself, inside and out, in a meditative style. Robinson's prose asks the reader to slow down to the pace of an old man in Gilead, Iowa, in 1956. Ames writes of his father and grandfather, estranged over his grandfather's departure for Kansas to march for abolition and his father's lifelong pacifism. The tension between them, their love for each other and their inability to bridge the chasm of their beliefs is a constant source of rumination for John Ames. Fathers and sons.
The other constant in the book is Ames's friendship since childhood with "old Boughton," a Presbyterian minister. Boughton, father of many children, favors his son, named John Ames Boughton, above all others. Ames must constantly monitor his tendency to be envious of Boughton's bounteous family; his first wife died in childbirth and the baby died almost immediately after her. Jack Boughton is a ne'er-do-well, Ames knows it and strives to love him as he knows he should. Jack arrives in Gilead after a long absence, full of charm and mischief, causing Ames to wonder what influence he might have on Ames's young wife and son when Ames dies.
These are the things that Ames tells his son about: his ancestors, the nature of love and friendship, the part that faith and prayer play in every life and an awareness of one's own culpability. There is also reconciliation without resignation, self-awareness without deprecation, abundant good humor, philosophical queries--Jack asks, "'Do you ever wonder why American Christianity seems to wait for the real thinking to be done elsewhere?'"--and an ongoing sense of childlike wonder at the beauty and variety of God's world.
In Marilynne Robinson's hands, there is a balm in Gilead, as the old spiritual tells us. --Valerie Ryan --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
Fans of Robinson's acclaimed debut Housekeeping (1981) will find that the long wait has been worth it. From the first page of her second novel, the voice of Rev. John Ames mesmerizes with his account of his life—and that of his father and grandfather. Ames is 77 years old in 1956, in failing health, with a much younger wife and six-year-old son; as a preacher in the small Iowa town where he spent his entire life, he has produced volumes and volumes of sermons and prayers, "[t]rying to say what was true." But it is in this mesmerizing account—in the form of a letter to his young son, who he imagines reading it when he is grown—that his meditations on creation and existence are fully illumined. Ames details the often harsh conditions of perishing Midwestern prairie towns, the Spanish influenza and two world wars. He relates the death of his first wife and child, and his long years alone attempting to live up to the legacy of his fiery grandfather, a man who saw visions of Christ and became a controversial figure in the Kansas abolitionist movement, and his own father's embittered pacifism. During the course of Ames's writing, he is confronted with one of his most difficult and long-simmering crises of personal resentment when John Ames Boughton (his namesake and son of his best friend) returns to his hometown, trailing with him the actions of a callous past and precarious future. In attempting to find a way to comprehend and forgive, Ames finds that he must face a final comprehension of self—as well as the worth of his life's reflections. Robinson's prose is beautiful, shimmering and precise; the revelations are subtle but never muted when they come, and the careful telling carries the breath of suspense. There is no simple redemption here; despite the meditations on faith, even readers with no religious inclinations will be captivated. Many writers try to capture life's universals of strength, struggle, joy and forgiveness—but Robinson truly succeeds in what is destined to become her second classic.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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Reviewed by Gary E. Gilley, Pastor-teacher, Southern View Chapel
I won't bother with the external tale, an old and dying man, writing a letter to his very young son, to be read when he is long gone, and the son an adult, for that is only the framework upon which the author has hung the questions we should all ask ourselves, questions like: what does it mean to be human; how to love well and fully; what qualities make a person good; how am I seen in the eyes of the world; how do I see myself; what do I call God.
This should not be a fast read. I think it is meant to be read in small units, much as it was written, then pondered for awhile. And perhaps read again. Read the words printed, then "read" the words unspoken.
If you are not religious, don't be put off by the idea that this is a story narrated by a minister, from a family of ministers, and there are a lot of biblical references here. That all is just a way to structure the profound thoughts and ideas we should all consider if we are to be fully human.
This is probably one of the best books I have ever read. I've read thousands. This will be one of the few I'll read again. And again.
I have the sense from talking with many atheists and non-religious people that “religious” is often seen as synonymous with “preachy”, especially when the religion in question is Christianity (case in point: whatever derivative, “faith-promoting” Christian cinema is currently being featured at your nearest multiplex or Walmart discount bin). Fortunately, as with all good literature that intelligently addresses the subject of religion, Gilead could hardly be accused of being evangelical, even by the most skeptical critic. In fact, I was particularly attracted to the book because an atheist pundit I occasionally follow claimed it was one of the few books that might convince an atheist that faith actually has some value. If that’s not a good enough endorsement for a curious secular audience, I don’t know what is.
As much as I love theological nuggets in my novels, Gilead is slow digging. It’s about what you would expect of a novel set in a small Iowa town in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t find any of characters outside of the narrator, John Ames, to be particularly compelling, either. That said, as a thematically-driven, rather than character-driven, narrative, I feel that Gilead is best read for the fresh insights it reveals about the meaning and value of ordinary religious life. Robinson provides a satisfying meal of meat where milk is too frequently provided, eschewing “theological Twinkies” in favor of a more substantive examination of the ultimate questions; one that a wide audience of believers and non-believers can mutually enjoy.