Gilead

A famous author once said he wished that he had written Gilead. It struck me as the highest form of flattery that one writer can bestow upon another. For the life of me, I cannot remember who made the comment, but it persuaded me to buy the book.

Gilead takes the form of a letter. Nearing the end of his life, 76-year-old Congregationalist minister John Ames writes a letter to his seven-year-old son. Ames reflects on his past, faith, and the history of his family. While the book didn’t do much for me, Marilynne Robinson’s prose and storytelling are praiseworthy. 

I’m writing this long after completing the book. I cannot recall the details. Instead of a review, I’ll call out a few of my favorite lines.

Less than 10 pages into the book, Ames delivers a truth that’s lost on us all from time to time: A little too much anger, too often or at the wrong time, can destroy much more than you would ever imagine. Above all, mind what you say. ‘Behold how much wood is kindled by how small a fire, and the tongue is a fire’ — that’s the truth. (7)

Still within the first 10 pages, a sad truth about human relationships: 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. (8)

Further along, something relatable: I’ve developed a great reputation for wisdom by ordering more books than I ever had time to read, and reading more books, by far, than I learned anything useful from, except, of course, that some very tedious gentlemen have written books. (45)

On the same page, Ames makes reference to Proverbs 27:7. I love the way the proverb is worded: “The full soul loatheth an honeycomb; but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.” There are pleasures to be found where you would never look for them. (45)

Not exactly comforting this one: There are three parties… even to the most private thoughts — the self that yields the thought, the self that acknowledges and in some way responds to the thought, and the Lord. (51)

Here, Ames writes of guilt. While this feels about right, I believe shame is worse than guilt. You can atone for guilt, but shame is a weight on the soul: It has been my experience that guilt can burst through the smallest breach and cover the landscape, and abide in it in pools and dankness, just as native as water. (93)

Another zinger: People who can see right through you never quite do you justice, because they never give you credit for the effort you’re making to be better than you actually are, which is difficult and well meant and deserving of some little notice. (112)

Here, What Ames says reminds of Mark Twain’s line on how the worst things in his life never happened to him: Our dream of life will end as dreams do end, abruptly and completely, when the sun rises, when the light comes. And we will think, All that fear and all that grief were about nothing. (118)

On communication: This morning you came to me with a picture you had made that you wanted me to admire. I was just at the end of a magazine article, just finishing the last paragraph, so I didn’t look up right away. Your mother said, in this kindest, saddest voice, ‘He doesn’t hear you.’ Not ‘He didn’t’ but ‘He doesn’t.’ (162)

Jung argues that we should embrace our fears and anxieties. We’ll come out better for processing them. Ames is more poetic: The worst eventualities can have great value as experience. And often enough, when we think we are protecting ourselves, we are struggling against our rescuer. (176)

Light in the darkness: What is the purpose of a prophet except to find meaning in trouble? (267)

On fear: He was expounding the wonders of the larger world, and I was resolving my heart never to risk the experience of them. (268)