Gilead (Oprah's Book Club): A Novel

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...

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.

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.

I've read many good books, many bad books, and many mediocre books over the course of my lifetime. There is a fourth category, however, which I call "Books-That-Stir-Your-Soul" (BTSYS). You know, the ones that start something warm coursing down your chest, speaking to you in a way you never knew possible, and making you conscious in a new way. Books in this category are few, but include Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, Faulkner's Light in August and As I Lay Dying, and Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. Your list will probably differ, but you get the idea.

There is now an addition to my BTSYS list, a novel by Marilynne Robinson called Gilead (Picador, New York, 2004). This is not a new book, but I only encountered it upon reviewing Marilynne Robinson's recent book of essays, When I Was A Child I Read Books. In the process, I found myself in awe of Ms. Robinson's ability to express the ineffable with words that wrap themselves around you and then pull tight the knots of meaning in an unforgettable way.

The book's title refers to a place, a small community in Iowa, not far from the Kansas border. The time frame is the early 1950s. The narrator is a man named John Ames, a seventy-six (soon to be seventy-seven) year old Congregationalist minister. The entire book is a letter to his six-year old son. John's heart is giving out, and he will soon die. In the letter, he is telling his young son--born of a late-in-life marriage to a much younger woman--about himself, his life, his family, and his faith.

In this letter, Ames confronts his family's history. He is the son of a preacher, whose grandfather was an abolitionist preacher during the years of "Bloody Kansas." His grandfather hovers over this story and reminiscences abound about how the old man rode with John Brown and how he sometimes stood in the pulpit with a pistol and bloody clothing. These were the stories John Ames heard from his father, but all he remembered about Grandpa was the way the old man would look at him, as if knowing what was in his mind, and how he had a habit of just taking stuff from other people. The people around Gilead just came to accept the old man's idiosyncrasies.

The love story between Ames and his wife, who showed up at a service on a Pentecost and who seemed to be taken by the much older man's kind and gentle ways, is the reredos behind the story: the curtain is parted only slightly in his portrayal of the woman, but she remains largely a mystery to us. We do know that she loved John enough to give him a child in his old age and to fill his life with love long after he lost his first wife and child. When the ne'er do well son of his closest friend, a Presbyterian minister he grew up with, arrives back in Gilead John begins to notice that his wife and son seem taken by the younger man and John's creeping mortality begins to work on his fears for the future.

The themes that streak though this novel include respect, something people had for one another in earlier times; and light. Images are constantly appearing about the light, and it intrudes upon life in the most unexpected moments, such as when his young son and a friend are playing in the sprinkler:

"The sprinkler is a magnificent invention because it exposes raindrops to sunshine. That does occur in nature, but it is rare... I've always loved to baptize people, though I have sometimes wished there were more shimmer and splash involved in the way we go about it. Well, but you two are dancing around in your iridescent little downpour, whooping and stomping as sane people ought to do when they encounter a thing so miraculous as water."

The phrase "in the way we go about it" refers to the fact that John's denomination baptizes by sprinkling, not immersion. This issue and many other religious questions pop up in his letter, only to make very evident that there is a real difference between his faith lived and that same faith observed from outside. This is why atheists as well as Christians should read Gilead. Much of what those who attack Christianity base their attacks on are misunderstandings. For example, when confronted with a sincere question about salvation, particularly the famously Calvinist notion that God has pre-determined who is saved and who is damned before they are born, John addresses this question with a startling lack of dogmatism and comes down decidedly on the side of a merciful God.

John Ames is not a man who bases his life on dogma. He is a believer who understands the intricacies of faith and does not rest on its supposed certainties. And, in spite of the fact that Christianity is often seen as a life-denying faith, John's statement in this letter to the child he will not see grow up makes it quite clear that his faith is anything but. In fact, faith is the element in his life that adds the sparkle to existence.

"Remembering my youth," writes John, "makes me aware that I never really had enough of it, it was over before I was done with it...Oh, I will miss the world!"

This is a book to ponder, to read and re-read, and to carry through life as we grow older and find ourselves feeling the need to explain why we are the way they are to those we are about to leave behind. Most people don't really think about it, however. What a shame. Letters like this from parents a just might help to make our children better human beings.

Unfortunately, the notion of what a "better human being" is may seem strange to a world that demands empirical demonstrations for every concept. If you are among those, don't read this book. Unless you want to rethink some of your basic assumptions.

I was wary at first of a book that references the Bible and has such a slow cadence but it worked its magic. It’s like the antidote to modern life. I love the beauty of the language and the gentle voice of the narrator. I love how deep his self reflection goes and how much joy and beauty he finds in so many small perfect things. I appreciated the familiarity of his depiction of small town America. It made me think of the world my grandparents and great aunts and uncles had in Minnesota many years ago. I look forward to the other books in this series.

Gilead is the story of an elderly reverend recounting days of family history and personal thoughts to leave to his son. John Ames begins his book length letter to his son by saying his heart is failing. He does not expect to see his very young son grow up. John Ames comes from a line of preachers. His grandfather and father, also named John Ames, served as pastors. This does not mean they saw eye-to-eye on all matters. John writes of some of the conflicts between generations. His grandfather was a gun-toting abolitionist. His father, a pacifist, was ashamed of his father for his militant attitude that came out of the Civil War. the current John Ames, who writes the letter in the late 1950’s, did not disagree with his father so much, but still created some conflict by attending another church. For John, he hasn’t a conflict with his toddler son, but he does have a conflict with the son of his best friend, named after him – John Ames Boughton, also known as Jack Boughton. Jack Boughton is the son of a preacher too, but is certainly not one to carry on the tradition. John recalls Jack plaguing him as a boy, mischievously taking his things or damaging them. When Jack returns to Gilead in his adulthood, John is wary of him, repeatedly warning the addressee of this letter about the man. Eventually Jack admits his wrongs to John, since he feels he cannot admit this to his own father, proving John’s suspicions right, but also surprising him by what may be genuine seeking of spiritual guidance. Marilynne Robinson writes a story in which theology is lived by its characters. It is sometimes brought forth as it is integral to the narrator, but it is not didactic. The voice of John Ames is rather folksy, “When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think What is the Lord asking me in the moment, in this situation?” (p. 141). His voice, that is Marilynne Robinson’s voice, is also poetic. Ames writes, as he considers life’s end, “I didn’t feel very much at home in the world, that was a fact. Now I do” (p. 4). He notices the beauty of life, an appeals to the senses. One line, among many, that reflects the poetic voice: “Everywhere you stepped, little grasshoppers would fly up by the score, making that snap they do, like striking a match” (p. 15).

Marilynne Robinson’s 2004 novel, ‘Gilead’, is basically one 247-page letter written by an aging Congregationalist minister, John Ames, to the adult that his son will become years after his father dies, which, based on Ames’ diagnosis of heart disease, may happen soon. If the title ‘Fathers and Sons’ had not already been taken, it would fit this novel perfectly. Various relationships between fathers and their sons are examined in Ames’ epistolary wanderings.

Gilead is the town in Iowa where the Ames family settled decades before John Ames was born. He is the third generation of John Ames’s, and he is also the third generation of ministers. His grandfather had a rifle and wasn’t afraid to use it. A militant abolitionist, he went to Kansas to support John Brown, then fight the Civil War, in which he lost an eye, and later in life, got fed up with his life in Gilead and went back out to Kansas, where he died. When Ames the narrator was a boy, he and his father set out west to find the father/grandfather’s grave. A bitter rift had developed between the grandfather, who fought in the Civil War, and his pacifist son. The pilgrimage to the grave was an attempt at some kind of closure for the son, wanting his son to understand the continuity of the generations and not feel the same distance from him.

Ames the narrator had a wife and child earlier in his life but she died in childbirth along with her baby. Unexpectedly, in his later years, a young woman named Lila starts attending his church and he makes a special point of inviting her to his classes. It becomes apparent that she reciprocates his interest and he remains a little surprised that this young, beautiful woman would be attracted to a man in his late 70’s.

Ames’ best friend for many years is the Presbyterian minister, Robert Boughton. They are so close that Boughton names one of his sons after him, John Ames Boughton, known as “Jack”. Jack has been the black sheep of his family, a prodigal who returns after many years, now in his 40’s himself. Although Ames tries to be kind and generous to everyone, he bears a non-expressed resentment toward Jack. A few years earlier Jack impregnated a poor local girl who lived with her impoverished family, barely a teen herself. Due to unsanitary living conditions and the lack of affordable health care, the baby died and Jack left Gilead. Ames knows about prodigals, being the obedient son, and having a brother, Edward, who left to go to England to study Philosophy and returned an avowed atheist.

Now that Jack is back in Gilead, he becomes friendly with Lila and their son. Ames fears that after his death, Jack will attempt to take his place as husband/father, a scenario that displeases him greatly. Jack leaves when Ames and his father are having one of their discussions and returns, usually inserting himself in the conversation with an awkward, exaggerated deference to Ames, often apologetic, which just increases Ames’ resentment. There is some unfinished business between the two of them that both of them probably feel should be resolved soon. Finally, Jack confides to Ames what has happened to him in his missing years from Gilead, an unburdening which lightens Ames’ feeling toward him.

At least 50% of the novel, perhaps more, is devoted to Ames’ theological ruminations, which struck me as tedious. Although I acknowledge that they are justified in an understanding of the character, they make for unwelcome distractions from the more interesting interactions between the characters. If I were as concerned about theological matters, as Robinson obviously is, they might be more engaging. However, there are passages of wonder and beauty that shine in the midst of all the tedium, reminiscent of large portions of Robinson’s vastly superior debut novel, ‘Housekeeping’. Also, based on what I know about the two successive interrelated novels with ‘Gilead’, ‘Home’ and ‘Lila’, their narratives may, hopefully, flow more smoothly.

Ames is a good, moral man who is compassionate and attempts to understand his fellow humans. That in itself does not always lend itself to very involving storytelling as most effective stories depend on conflict for their success and degree of insight. He is a glass half-full person. If he has insomnia throughout the night, he takes advantage of being awake early to appreciate the beauty of the dawn.

I suppose it is worth wading through John Ames’ thoughts to arrive at wise passages such as this: “In every important way we are such secrets from one another, and I do believe that there is a separate language in each of us, also a separate aesthetics and a separate jurisprudence. Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable - which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. We take fortuitous resemblances among us to be actual likeness, because those around us have also fallen heir to the same customs, trade in the same coin, acknowledge, more or less, the same notions of decency and sanity. But all that really just allows us to coexist with the inviolable, intraversable, and utterly vast spaces between us.”

I can’t think of a more perfectly expressed explanation of how we go through our lives, interacting and bridging connections, each of us in our own bubbles of solitude.

I do most of my reading and reviewing as a solitary occupation until I publish my thoughts on a book. I was glad to have read Gilead by Marilynne Robinson as a part of a book club where we could all bounce our reflections on the book off the mirrors of the impressions of others. The member of our group who suggested this book had read it several times. When I first began the book, I could not imagine enduring more than one reading. I have never liked stream-of-consciousness as a style of writing, and this book is a good example. John Ames, a Congregationalist minister, puts pen to paper to share his final thoughts with his young son, the things he would have told him as he grew, were their age difference not so pronounced. Having finished the book, I reread the first page to gather my thoughts and was amazed at what a perfect beginning it holds, carefully crafted and full of promise.

Although I still don’t favor the stream-of-consciousness style, I appreciate how appropriate it is to this epistolary novel with its many themes. The setting is the Midwestern town of Gilead that was once part of the underground railroad. Racial issues keep popping up at the most unexpected times in this book. Much of the story deals with relationships across generations. Without strict attention, it can be difficult to sort out which generation is being referenced. There are many ministers in the family line, but father and son bonds can be troublesome as the characters struggle to answer for themselves what is required to have a good life. Another level of complication is added in the thread of John’s namesake, Jack, the son of his best friend Robert who is also a pastor. There are undertones of the Biblical story of the “Prodigal Son” in some of those difficult associations. John, who never says anything bad about anyone, will leave behind a loving wife with a mysterious past, a much loved son, and boxes and boxes of sermons. How will he be remembered?

Gilead is not an easy or quick read. Be prepared to reread passages, especially those with theological depth. Some I just had to walk away from; others benefited from group discussion. I plodded through the first half of disparate pieces; I was fascinated with the second half as those pieces came together to form a beautiful design. At some point I probably will reread Gilead after I stand apart a bit and allow the characters of Gilead to become a comfortable part of my vision of “the good life.”

The strength of voice in GILEAD is rather amazing. The novel is written as a series of meditations penned by the Reverend John Ames, a 76-year old who, fearing death is nigh, wants to leave some words of wisdom for his 7 year-old son. It is quite clear why the book won the Pulitzer; the tenderness of the language is nearly flawless, and although his contemplations are never particularly ground-breaking or revelatory, they brim with the kind of patient wisdom that you'd expect in a dedicated pastor who imagines Heaven to be just around the corner.

However, although I can acknowledge the beauty of the novel's prose and poetry, it is hard to recommend it as a book. For one thing, there is virtually no plot whatsoever. There are a few elements that help bind Ames's thoughts together. He has much to say about fathers and sons, obviously. His grandfather (also a pastor) was an eccentric abolitionist who thought war was part of the call to God's grace, while his father (also a pastor) was a pacifist who struggled with his own embrace of the calling. The two did not get along.

More troubling to our narrator is the return of his namesake, John Ames Boughton. Born to the narrator's closest friend, a Presbyterian minister referred to as Boughton, the younger John Ames is the novel's prodigal son figure. His "devilment" and penchant for trouble vexes both his father as well as the John Ames after whom he was named. Specifically, our narrator wonders quite a bit about the influence the young Boughton will have on Ames's wife and child when he is finally gone.

The themes are as old as the Bible, and Ames doesn't really explore any new ground. He mostly comes to the conclusion that the world is a wonderful place, that you should enjoy every minute of it that you can, and that forgiveness is far greater a blessing for the one who bestows it than for those who receive. Pretty standard stuff for anyone who was raised in the church, as I was.

I never felt excited to return to this novel, but I also never read the pages without admiring the skill they displayed. It is very much a novel for the mind, but only a patient and hungry mind. Ames writes that he tries "to write the way I think," and at least a dozen times in the novel he concludes a passage with "this is a remarkable thing to consider" or "I must think more about this." My favorite line was, "I have been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly."

This quote sums up what works and what doesn't about the book. Robinson seems to know this and, furthermore, doesn't seem to care, which I also admire. It might not be traditionally entertaining, but it's a real and solid vision. Ames says he's going to stop writing, but then he continues for many more pages. I had to grin, being reminded so well of my childhood when the pastor would finally say, "Let me end with this..." and then go on to speak for ten more minutes. Ames says, "I believe I may have found a way out of the cave of this tedious preoccupation," but his "way out" is more mulling and musing.

For those who have the energy, focus, and patience for that sort of thing, there are riches to the book. My favorite moment is when Ames preaches from an old sermon -- reading straight from the paper he wrote it on many, many years earlier. He feels the inadequacy of the sermon and the way he is "preaching," while also discussing the content, which compares rationalism and irrationalism to materialism and idolatry. All this, while the young Boughton sits in the congregation with a false smile on his face. A literary major could eat the layers of this stuff up.

It doesn't make for very good story-telling, though. As beautiful as the world's minutiae might be, there's an inherent tedium and laziness to making this philosophy and hope the centering force of a book on preaching, familial obligations, death, and God. I saw, heard, and smelled every moment of the book with stunning clarity, but I closed the novel feeling as if I'd just listened to a pastor preach to the choir.

First, let me say that Robinson is an excellent writer. Her prose is clear, concise, and at the same time infuses a lyrical grace into her sentences. I think this is the reason that the literary elite have so embraced her books and awarded this novel the Pulitzer Prize. But I believe there are many problems with her approach to this book and to her fiction in general. As many have pointed out, half of this novel is basically a long-winded sermon, and as I read this book, I often thought that she really wants to write a theological treatise, not a novel. What saves the book from utter boredom is the quality of her prose. But the problem goes beyond her interest in theology. She really is deeply nostalgic, and not in a good way. As the hymn that we used to sing in my childhood says, “Give my that old time religion, it’s good enough for me.” It may be good enough for Robinson, but it isn’t good enough for me.

I feel that the reason that the literary elite has embraced her so readily is that they have failed to realize that Robinson is deeply conservative. She reminds me of the saying “a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” She’s a conservative in liberal clothing. And that has fooled many people unfamiliar with American conservative religion. I grew up in West Texas, in the middle of the Bible Belt. All the people in my family were long-standing Methodists with several ministers in the family genealogy. In fact, my father was a Methodist minister. My family was also deeply conservative, and every single member of the family was a Texas Republican at a time when a majority of Texans were Democrats supporting Lyndon Johnson. So I feel that I can see through the surface liberalism that Robinson seems to evoke when she speaks at a university or some other more liberal setting.

The reason I think this is important is that this novel is really a propaganda piece for conservative religion. John Ames, a Congregationalist minister in the imaginary town of Gilead, Iowa, is the perfect ideal of what a minister is suppose to be. He questions himself on theological matters, he tries to be a good person and not sin, and he shows concerns for Jack, the wayward son a his best friend, another minister in the town. This is all well and good. The problem stems from the fact that her presentation of the religious characteristics of of her imaginary town and Iowa is a complete fantasy. This fantasy is captured at one point when Ames comments, “This morning a splendid dawn passed over our house on its way to Kansas. And then Ames quotes from the Bible. “Thou wast in Eden, the garden of God...” Gilead is like some sort of American Garden of Eden, although for good measure she does touch upon the poverty and problems that Americans have suffered, from the loss of life during the Civil War to the suffering of rural folk during the Great Depression. But I must emphasize that she only touches upon these inconvenient realities. No mention of the thousands of pig farms polluting the drinking water of Iowa and causing a significant rise in cancer. We don’t want to talk about that!

For the most part Gilead is a religious utopia. She never really investigates the other side of American conservative religion. My experience with fundamentalist religion was apparently quite different from hers. Although there were many good people in the churches I attended in my childhood, and many of these people were generous human beings, there was a profoundly disturbing side to the religious life of these communities. When I was 12 years old my father, the good minister, was absolutely joyous when Martin Luther King was murdered. Even at such a young age I was shocked by his reaction. How could a man who preached “love thy neighbor” on Sunday turn around and celebrate the assassination of another person just because that person was black and was working for equality. And sadly, he wasn’t the exception to the rule. My entire family, and most of the people in my church, were racist to the core. Of course, they would have denied it vehemently. They would say that they have no problem with Blacks, so long as they stay on their side of the tracks, and leave white women alone. That event, and others like it, made me begin to question the ideas I was hearing in church every Sunday.

Robinson tries to address these issues through her character Jack. But isn’t it telling that the one person who questions religion, and also brings up questions about racism in the heartland of America, is also a deeply troubled man who steals in his youth and gets into serious trouble as an adult. Consciously or unconsciously, when Robinson creates a character who questions religion, or questions the contradictions in conservative America, they are always troubled people.

I’m sure many apologists for fundamentalist Christianity in America would say that you can’t judge the entire ideology based on a few bad apples. But why is there almost a direct correlation between deeply held religious belief and narrow minded attitudes. Although there are many exceptions, from what I’ve observed through my many years in the Bible Belt, the more religious a person is the more likely they are to being narrow minded, judgmental of others who don’t share their beliefs, and anti-intellectual. Why is it that most of the people who reject science are also conservative Christians. Robinson never even begins to address these concerns because it would damage her comfortable religious beliefs. A question I continued to ask myself as I read this novel is - if her characters were alive in 2016 how would they have voted in the election. I feel certain that they would have overwhelmingly voted for Trump. If Robinson, who has stated that she is opposed to Trump, really feels that way, she needs to ask herself why her novels so support the kind of people who would vote for someone like Trump.

And since Robinson spends so much time talking about theology we should take a closer look at some of her ideas in this area. For instance, she thinks John Calvin has been unfairly maligned. When I first heard her say this I was absolutely dumbfounded. Remember, this is the man who ordered the execution by burning alive of a man by the name of Severus simply because his ideas didn’t agree with his own beliefs. Calvin was also anti-Semitic. In his book, “Objections of a Certain Jew” he argued that Jews misread their own scriptures, and that Jews are a rejected people who must embrace Jesus to re-enter the covenant. Remember also that Luther, the founder of the Protestantism that Robinson so loves, wrote one of the most violently anti-Semitic books ever written, a book that inspired the Nazis to commit many of the thousands of atrocities against Jews. For both Calvin and Luther, the basis of their anti-Semitism, was their deeply held religious beliefs. After the Holocaust, how can Robinson possibly defend someone like Calvin.

In a review of Robinson’s latest book “Jack” by Jess Row in the Los Angela’s Times, Row states that Robinson is “willing to gloss over a century’s worth of inconvenient facts - from the racial history of Iowa to the doctrinal splits in Calvinist denominations that have produced today’s conservative extremists - in service to an idealized common Americanness that fades as soon as you try to bring it into focus.” And the great literary critic James Wood has stated that “Robinson is illiberal and unfashionably fierce in her devotion to this Protestant tradition...”

For all her gifts as a writer, it seems to me that Robinson is a person so deeply immersed in her religious beliefs that she can’t really see the reality of America, both its historical reality or the reality we face today in this country. But Isn’t this is the one thing that we turn to literature for? When we open a book don’t we yearn for insight, for maybe a little better understanding of the complexities of the world we live in? Robinson is unable to give us that.