4.2
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10,380 ratings
“Quietly powerful [and] moving.” O, The Oprah Magazine (recommended reading)
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Critics Circle Award, GILEAD is a hymn of praise and lamentation to the God-haunted existence that Reverend Ames loves passionately, and from which he will soon part.
In 1956, toward the end of Reverend John Ames's life, he begins a letter to his young son, an account of himself and his forebears. Ames is the son of an Iowan preacher and the grandson of a minister who, as a young man in Maine, saw a vision of Christ bound in chains and came west to Kansas to fight for abolition: He "preached men into the Civil War," then, at age fifty, became a chaplain in the Union Army, losing his right eye in battle.
Reverend Ames writes to his son about the tension between his father--an ardent pacifist--and his grandfather, whose pistol and bloody shirts, concealed in an army blanket, may be relics from the fight between the abolitionists and those settlers who wanted to vote Kansas into the union as a slave state. And he tells a story of the sacred bonds between fathers and sons, which are tested in his tender and strained relationship with his namesake, John Ames Boughton, his best friend's wayward son.
This is also the tale of another remarkable vision--not a corporeal vision of God but the vision of life as a wondrously strange creation. It tells how wisdom was forged in Ames's soul during his solitary life, and how history lives through generations, pervasively present even when betrayed and forgotten.
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ISBN-10
1250784018
ISBN-13
978-1250784018
Print length
256 pages
Language
English
Publisher
Picador Paper
Publication date
August 03, 2020
Dimensions
5.4 x 0.65 x 8.15 inches
Item weight
8.2 ounces
A little too much anger, too often or at the wrong time, can destroy more than you would ever imagine.
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There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that.
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You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension.
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To be useful was the best thing the old men ever hoped for themselves, and to be aimless was their worst fear.
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Love is holy because it is like grace—the worthiness of its object is never really what matters.
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B000O76NMS
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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
"Gilead is a beautiful work--demanding, grave and lucid . . . Robinson's words have a spiritual force that's very rare in contemporary fiction." --James Wood, The New York Times Book Review
"Robinson's 1981 debut, Housekeeping, was a perfect novel if ever there was one, and her long-awaited second novel proves just as captivating . . . Robinson's prose is lovely and wonderfully precise . . . Gilead is a gentle journey that will be even better the second time you read it." --Jeremy Jackson, People
"[Gilead] is so serenely beautiful, and written in a prose so gravely measured and thoughtful, that one feels touched with grace just to read it. Gilead possesses the quiet ineluctable perfection of Flaubert's A Simple Heart as well as the moral and emotional complexity of Robert Frost's deepest poetry . . . Immensely moving." --Michael Dirda, The Washington Post Book World
"A major work." --Philip Connors, Newsday
"A beautifully rendered story . . . full of penetrating intellect and artful prose . . . that captures the splendors and pitfalls of being alive . . . The world could use . . . more novels this wise and radiant." --Kathryn Schwille, The Charlotte Observer
"Compelling . . . Brilliant." --Martin Northway, St. Louis Post-Dispatch
"There is a lot of pleasure to be had in the novel's probing, thoughtful narrative voice." --Matt Murray, The Wall Street Journal
"Magnificent . . . A psalm worthy of study, a sermon of the loveliest profundity . . . [A] literary miracle . . . 'A'." --Lisa Schwarzbaum, Entertainment Weekly
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Chapter One
I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I'm old, and you said, I don't think you're old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren't very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you've had with me and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don't laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother's. It's a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I'm always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsigned after I've suffered one of those looks. I will miss them. It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this-it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then-I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.
I don't know how many times people have asked me what death is like, sometimes when they were only an hour or two from finding out for themselves. Even when I was a very young man, people as old as I am now would ask me, hold on to my hands and look into my eyes with their old milky eyes, as if they knew I knew and they were going to make me tell them. I used to say it was like going home. We have no home in this world, I used to say, and then I'd walk back up the road to this old place and make myself a pot of coffee and a friend-egg sandwich and listen to the radio, when I got one, in the dark as often as not. Do you remember this house? I think you must, a little. I grew up in parsonages. I've lived in this one most of my life, and I've visited in a good many others, because my father's friends and most of our relatives also lived in parsonages. And when I thought about it in those days, which wasn't too often, I thought this was the worst of them all, the draftiest and the dreariest. Well, that was my state of mind at the time. It's a perfectly good old house, but I was all alone in it then. And that made it seem strange to me. I didn't feel very much at home in the world, that was a face. Now I do.
And now they say my heart is failing. The doctor used the term "angina pectoris," which has a theological sound, like misericordia. Well, you expect these things at my age. My father died an old man, but his sisters didn't live very long, really. So I can only be grateful. I do regret that I have almost nothing to leave you and your mother. A few old books no one else would want. I never made any money to speak of, and I never paid any attention to the money I had. It was the furthest thing from my mind that I'd be leaving a wife and child, believe me. I'd have been a better father if I'd known. I'd have set something by for you.
That is the main thing I want to tell you, that I regret very deeply the hard times I know you and your mother must have gone through, with no real help from me at all, except my prayers, and I pray all the time. I did while I lived, and I do now, too, if that is how things are in the next life.
I can hear you talking with your mother, you asking, she answering. It's not the words I hear, just the sounds of your voices. You don't like to go to sleep, and every night she has to sort of talk you into it all over again. I never hear her sing except at night, from the next room, when she's coaxing you to sleep. And then I can't make out what song it is she's singing. Her voice is very low. It sounds beautiful to me, but she laughs when I say that.
I really can't tell what's beautiful anymore. I passed two young fellows on the street the other day. I know who they are, they work at the garage. They're not churchgoing, either one of them, just decent rascally young fellows who have to be joking all the time, and there they were, propped against the garage wall in the sunshine, lighting up their cigarettes. They're always so black with grease and so strong with gasoline I don't know why they don't catch fire themselves. They were passing remarks back and forth the way they do and laughing that wicked way they have. And it seemed beautiful to me. It is an amazing thing to watch people laugh, the way it sort of takes them over. Sometimes they really do struggle with it. I see that in church often enough. So I wonder what it is and where it comes from, and I wonder what it expends out of your system, so that you have to do it till you're done, like crying in a way, I suppose, except that laughter is much more easily spent.
When hey saw me coming, of course the joking stopped, but I could see they were still laughing to themselves, thinking what the old preacher almost heard the say.
I felt like telling them, I appreciate a joke as much as anybody. There have been many occasions in my life when I have wanted to say that. But it's not a thing people are willing to accept. They want you to be a little bit apart. I felt like saying, I'm a dying man, and I won't have so many more occasions to laugh, in this world at least. But that would just make them serious and polite, I suppose. I'm keeping my condition a secret as long as I can. For a dying man I feel pretty good, and that is a blessing. Of course your mother knows about it. She said if I feel good, maybe the doctor is wrong. But at my age there's a limit to how wrong he can be.
That's the strangest thing about this life, about being in the ministry. And then sometimes those very same people come into your study and tell you the most remarkable things. There's a lot under the surface of life, everyone knows that. A lot of malice and dread and guilt, and so much loneliness, where you wouldn't really expect a find it, either.
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Marilynne Robinson
Marilynne Robinson is the author of the bestselling novels "Lila," "Home" (winner of the Orange Prize), "Gilead" (winner of the Pulitzer Prize), and "Housekeeping" (winner of the PEN/Hemingway Award).
She has also written four books of nonfiction, "When I Was a Child I Read Books," "Absence of Mind," "Mother Country" and "The Death of Adam." She teaches at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop.
She has been given honorary degrees from Brown University, the University of the South, Holy Cross, Notre Dame, Amherst, Skidmore, and Oxford University. She was also elected a fellow of Mansfield College, Oxford University.
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Customer reviews
4.2 out of 5
10,380 global ratings
Frank Donnelly
5
A Mature, Very Well Written Second Novel By Marilynne Robinson
Reviewed in the United States on February 3, 2018
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This is a well written story about a senior citizen, preacher, anticipating the end of his life. The setting is a small town in Iowa. The time frame is twentieth century America. The protagonist is looking backward and composing a very lengthy letter to a young son about his life and the history of his family. The story revolves around both history and faith. It is a slow moving novel and not an "action" novel.
The novel itself is essentially one very long letter. It is written in first person. The writer is a man of the cloth, who is seventy seven years of age, who has a medical condition and anticipates death. He nonetheless has a very young son. He feels he will die with his son having little or no memory of him.
I liked the novel very much. There is a lot of narrative about faith. At times, not always, the story sounds like a sermon in church. This may not appeal the taste of every reader. The story more or less meanders and there is little action.
This is the second novel of Marilynne Robinson. The first is "Housekeeping". I read that novel first. I like both novels. They are fairly mature and sophisticated novels. I like this novel more than the first one. However I am glad that I read both of them.
In summary I liked this novel very much and have become of a fan of Marilynne Robinson. The story moves slowly and includes a lot of narrative about faith. It may not suit the taste of every reader. In case a reader enjoys Marilynne Robinson, for what it is worth, her writing reminds me somewhat of Joan Didion's "Run River". Thank You...
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4 people found this helpful
E. Strickenburg
5
A book that touches the soul
Reviewed in the United States on October 14, 2011
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Reading this book is like reading poetry written in prose. Each phrase is full, rich, radiant. The images and metaphors bring out meaning that's beyond the actual words or stories. It's a book that touches the reader deep inside, and it's not a book to rush through. It's meant to be savored.
Written in the form of a letter, this is the account of a dying man writing to his young son. John Ames, the narrator, is a pastor in rural Iowa. He's writing in hopes of giving his son a picture of who he is and where he has come from - in hopes of overcoming the fact that his son will likely be left with only vague memories of him as an old man. The letter takes on a life of its own. It becomes a record of his thoughts, a plunge into his memories, a confession of his fears.
The characters in this book are deep - and very real. John Ames is a man full of life, hope, and kindness. He's a man who's struggled with bitter loneliness, and been pulled out of it into a renewed wonder at life in his old age. In the course of his stories and musings, we are introduced to other memorable people in his life: his fiery abolitionist grandfather, his quietly intense wife, his difficult and struggling namesake. One comes away from this book with renewed understanding of the depth and struggles of humanity.
John Ames is a very spiritual man, and this book deals perceptively with what it means to live a faithful and devoted life. Though it's about a pastor, it's not "preachy." Many of John Ames' struggles are with the interaction between his faith and his life. He asks the tough questions, and learns more of how to live out love and forgiveness.
No, this book isn't a page turner. But it's beautifully and subtly written and has incredible depth in its characters. It's a book that will impact your perspective on what it means to be human.
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5 people found this helpful
Dr. Lee D. Carlson
5
A deeply touching story
Reviewed in the United States on July 2, 2005
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Deeply touching and powerful in its prose, this story will take the reader to a world where one can almost hear a dandelion seed glance against a tree leaf; a world where children's chores were still required and marriage was viewed as sacred. It is a world that is dying, with its memories passed on only in writing. The gentle brushes of the wind in this world are being replaced by the chaotic vortices of change in the twenty-first century. Its nuances are not to be experienced any more. But a close approximation can be, by the reading of this story.
One should not view John Ames in the confines of his Christian beliefs, for these beliefs were only part of who he is. They were his personal schema; sometimes active, sometimes brought into his attentive consciousness, but at times replaced by others. One could easily view his beliefs as flexible, as tolerating different worldviews, or as ones where Christian steps can take different routes. "There are many ways to live a good life," he writes in the first paragraph.
Being a minister, people insisted that he be a "little bit apart." He was not permitted to engage in humor, or appreciate the same. People changed the subject when they saw him coming, but also were able to confide in him things that they would never to anyone else. Religion is frequently a catharsis, but not always. He recognizes also the destructive power of anger, which them must be constrained by an upper bound, both in degree and frequency.
And religious beliefs, like all others, find their origin in the surroundings, in the context in which one finds oneself. He was a "pious child" from a "pious household" in a "pious town". Such an environment affected his behavior greatly, he writes.
He has read Ludwig Feuerbach as well as Karl Barth, and he holds the optimism of the former to be just as valuable as the wisdom of the latter. The atheism of Feuerbach he tolerates, because Feuerbach "loves the world." His optimism is refreshing and realistic. He wakes up every morning and celebrates his existence and the efficacy of his mind. Grief and loneliness are rare in this life; peace and comfort are the norm. And in a moment of exuberance, he tries to dance to a waltz, not having been trained in the steps. No mind as optimistic as his can finish life without a dance. It is impossible.
Even his conception of God is interlaced with his optimism; bound tightly by it. It is one where God is not judgmental, but one where God takes pleasure in the viewing of his creatures. We are all "actors on a stage, " and "God is the audience."
In the most awesome passage from the book, he declares with humility and with understatement that "this is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it."
He's right.
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19 people found this helpful
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