Gilead (2004)

Told by a dying man to his young boy (to be read when the son is a grown up), Gilead is essentially a story of fathers and sons. The narrative begins with the dying man (a congregationalist minister named John Ames) explaining what he thinks his adult son would need to know, trying to describe his long life with the gravity of last words. As the book progresses, however, and we learn more about the minister's life and the generations before him, the story becomes much more inward, more like last thoughts than last words. As John Ames struggles with long-held prejudices, in the case of the young Boughton, wishes fulfilled but too late, with his young son, we're slowly made to question the reliability of the old reverend as narrator, but end up arriving at forgiveness exactly when he does; a well constructed device by Robinson.

Emotionally rich but at times plodding, the heartfelt philosophy of meekness, forgiveness, justice, and love come through mightily, if a bit predictably. Robinson's aim is not to shock or amaze, however, it' more to take one last, long look at a life of hard work in a cruel and beautiful world before forever stepping away from it. ( )

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* ( )

Pulitzer Prize

A beautiful book. ( )

A book about fathers and sons, including prodigal sons. Sometimes prodigal fathers. John Ames, after many years of widowhood, marries and fathers a son. His heart is failing, the son is only seven, so he resolves to write an account of his life, as well as that of his father and grandfather, that the son can read when he becomes a man. This novel is that account.
Like his father and two grandfathers, Ames is a minister in a small town on the Iowa prairie. He knows no other life. In the course of telling his tale, there is a lot of common sense theology. There is also heartache over his inability to have an honest talk with his godson and namesake, the black sheep son of his lifelong best friend, also a minister. His skill as a pastoral counselor seems to fail him when he needs it most.
Along with that heartache is Ames’s knowledge that he will leave a widow and young son unprovided for. At the same time, the narrator records his love for life. “It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of creation and turns it to radiance—for a moment or a year or the span of a life. And then it sinks back into itself again . . . .”
I’m in awe of how well-written this book is, with its conversational tone of voice. It is also the best book I’ve read on what it feels like to be a minister. ( )