What makes this such a beautiful book is that it takes seriously its values of honesty and forthrightness. The appeal of Christianity is the acknowledgement of sin and the imperative to be a better person in the service of others.

John Ames readily admits his flaws, but he is still somewhat idealized by the author. He is writing a text to his young son, to read when his father is dead and when he has grown. It is possible, therefore, that he conceals much, and that this is the nature of his narrative. He can't give everything dark away to posterity.

His struggles with what to conceal and what to reveal are pertinent in regards Jack Boughton, the prodigal son of Ames's best friend, and his namesake. What does it mean to be a Christian towards Jack? Who is most in need of saving? ( )

Quiet but persistent, what could certainly bore me to tears kept my attention till the end instead. It took me years to pick up this book, because an old father writing to his son just didn't sound gripping, and he's a pastor at that, so do I really want to hear more preaching? But it's an honest and reflective monologue that delivers humanity beautifully. ( )

First edition as new

In 1950s Iowa, precisely in the windswept settlement of Gilead, Congregationalist minister John Ames is preparing to meet his Maker. Ames is 76 and his heart has been playing up. He knows that he does not have long to live, and that he will be leaving behind a young wife and a seven year old son, the unexpected blessing of his old age. So he sets out to write a long letter to this boy he will never see growing up. As Ames sifts through his memories, the story of his family (particularly his preacher father and grandfather) and the community which they served starts to take shape. Old pains and preoccupations resurface - particularly those related to the minister's godson and namesake John Ames Boughton. A troublemaker in childhood, youth and well into adulthood, is there the possibility of salvation for Boughton as well? Will God's grace ever touch him?

This is "Gilead" - part diary, part memoir; part testament, part confession. Robinson writes brilliantly - her narrator's style is perfectly pitched and utterly convincing with its continuous scriptural references and discursive theological debates underscored by very human emotions. Some scenes and metaphors - such as the image of John and and his father standing on the desolate grave of John's grandfather against the backdrop of a rising moon - will stick to the mind.

At one point in the novel, Ames mentions [b:The Diary of a Country Priest|63672|The Diary of a Country Priest|Georges Bernanos|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1436634216s/63672.jpg|1174195] by [a:Georges Bernanos|35812|Georges Bernanos|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1245180195p2/35812.jpg]. Although the latter book is written from a Catholic viewpoint (indeed, it is considered a classic "Catholic novel") whilst Gilead reflects a "Calvinist" theology, there are surprising similarities between the two works in their conception (a first-person journal), narrators (troubled "men of the cloth" in a small community) and in their concerns (mercy, grace, sin, redemption). However, I'd say that Robinson is a cannier writer. Although hers is no plot-driven novel, she tightly controls the few narrative threads and introduces gradual revelations in such a way that she grips the interest of the reader. I'd even go as far as saying that she manages to make her novel "entertaining" - and I mean that in a good way. Both are great books - but, to use a musical analogy, it's rather like comparing the organ works of Messiaen with the more immediate pleasures of Copland's "Appalachian Spring".

4.5* rounded up to 5* ( )

Here in 2023, after reading Robinson's Lila and starting to read her Housekeeping, I see that I logged in this book in 2011. Now, though, I have no certain memory of having read it. ( )