I could summarize this review in two words: read Gilead. Now I know what you might be thinking—I’m not taking much of a risk in lauding a Pulitzer Prize winner, but I’m not always on the same page, so to speak, with the judges of such awards. For the most recent instance, I found Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to be tiresome and repetitive, despite the strength of his other work; alas, it wins the Pulitzer. (Is there a reason he ignores apostrophes, or is McCarthy simply waiting for a master’s thesis explaining it?)
Anyway, I was stunned by Robinson’s book, despite my initial reluctance to read it. The synopsis put forth by reviewers was this: a dying minister in Iowa writes a memoir to his son. How does that synopsis sell novels? I got bored reading that summary. Well, apparently it did sell novels, and for good reason. John Ames is an engaging, powerful, and vulnerable character, and perhaps it is the latter trait that makes him—and the novel—so engaging. I was caught off guard so many times by his self-aware insecurities that I quickly lost my predisposition to ignore “preachy” types. Yet moments arise when he says something so profound, and in a quiet manner, that I was forced to stop reading and contemplate his words. And no, I am not religious, which is why my reaction to the book surprised me. I won’t quote any such moments for two reasons: first, that would remove them from the context of the rest of his words, a context that establishes the profundity of his statement; second, readers will clearly find such passages on their own without my hand-holding.
I also found that this novel steered my reading; more specifically, John Ames forced me to slow down, stop flipping pages to “see what happens,” and simply dwell on his words. This is one mark of an excellent book—like the unparalleled Moby-Dick, Gilead teaches us how to read, how to wrestle with the language and ideas rather than rushing through to get to the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next page. (I now see, on the back cover blurb, that a reviewer for the New York Times makes a similar claim—and s/he says it much better than I do—but I’m keeping my comments because they bear repeating.)
Perhaps most surprisingly, I felt humbled after reading this novel. I’m not sure if younger readers will “get” it, as the novel seems to mandate a certain intellectual and spiritual experience and vain surety that must be broken down, but it is well worth the effort for anyone to try.
