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GILEAD It took me a while to get around to reading Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, published in 2004, despite my eager anticipation. I thought that Robinson’s first novel, Housekeeping (published some twenty years ago), was a masterwork from beginning to end. Gilead, however, disappointed. The book is narrated by a seventy-six year old minister who has spent his entire life in the Gilead, a small town in Iowa. His heart problems dictate that his death is nigh, and the novel is actually a letter to his young son, whom he expects will read it as an adult. The book contained great language, as you’d expect from Robinson, and some fine scenes (the community clean-up of a church fire, for example) but by page 143, I had begun to find the narration tedious. There was far too much in the way of theological rambling, much of which wore thin. The plot was telegraphed way in advance (The monster’s coming… here comes the monster… he’s almost here…boo!), but I found it tardy in coming, and too spare when it arrived. I soldiered through, but after completing the book, I had to puzzle over why it won the Pulitzer Prize? Did the book receive critical reverence because it had been so long in coming after Housekeeping? Because the narrator was such a reverent man? Or (indulge my cynicism) might the award be one more illustration of the working of politics in the writing industry? This is my first review for this publication, and I was hoping it would be a glowing one. As a preview of a positive review, let me recommend a book I read at about the same time: Self, by Yann Martel. I’ll end with a bad rhyme: If you didn’t like Life of Pi, you might give Martel another try. --Michelle Chardonnay |