Gilead

Although Marilynne Robinson's Gilead had been strongly recommended to me by two people whose literary opinions I value quite highly, I now admit my initial reluctance to read it. A epistolary novel about a preacher in 1950s Iowa just didn't sound like something that would grab me, I suppose. And although the first fifty or so pages were exquisitely written and sprinkled with gorgeously constructed sentences and sentiments, I'm not entirely positive I would have made is past those first fifty meandering pages has it not been for two things: this book club, and this passage:

I'm writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you've done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God's grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all, and it may seem to you to be no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind. If only I had the words to tell you...You're just a nice-looking boy, a bit slight, well scrubbed and well mannered. All that is fine, but it's your existence I love you for, mainly. Existence seems to me now the most remarkable thing that could ever be imagined (52-53).

As corny as it sounds, I fell in love with John Ames (and, consequently, this novel) during this moment, a moment which encapsulated John's worldview for me: there is the potential for grace in everyone, beauty and joy can be present in even the most ordinary of things, and the mere existence of a person can be miraculous. (Of course this worldview is tested later in the novel with the return of Jack Boughton, but that's a topic for discussion, I suppose.) And after a few more glittering moments like the one above, I stopped searching for a plot - though one does eventually emerge - and started reveling in the way the novel was making me feel. Gilead is perhaps the single most loving thing I have ever read. For me, this book was a source of calm during a time in my life when it was sorely needed, and I am deeply thankful to have read it.

(And for the record, I'm not just saying these things because this book was my choice. I quite sincerely mean every single sappy word.)

But with that said, I also understand that this is an incredibly challenging novel in a lot of ways. Some readers take issue with the use of religion, others with the seemingly random narrative structure, and I'm sure a great many readers called it quits before the eventual plot began to reveal itself. And although I can (and will) defend all these criticisms, I can't fault anyone for having them. Gilead is an acquired taste, and one probably needs to be in a certain frame of mind to fully appreciate it.

So, in accordance to custom, I've posted below several questions for possible discussion. I hope you all get a chance to share your thoughts at some point soon, and please feel free to add a topic/question if you feel there is something I have overlooked. After all, there's quite a lot here to discuss.

Style and Structure

I suppose as good a place to begin as any is with the thing that could make or break Gilead for its readers: its style. There are really two halves to this book - the first rooted mostly in the past, and the second focusing primarily on the present. Similarly, when the focus shifts from the past to the present, Robinson's method of storytelling shifts as well. Gilead is mostly narrative in the beginning - a series of letters to his son, the subject of which often seem random until we read a bit further and see how each observation or memory leads to another. This way, themes, symbols and plot threads are introduced and woven together to form the core of the novel. Later, when the focus shifts from Ames's family history to the return of Jack Boughton, the style shifts to something a bit more familiar - more dialogue and plot here than the largely stream-of-consciousness method employed in the beginning.

So, some questions:

What did you make of Robinson's method of storytelling? Did it work for you, or did it feel like a slow, meandering mess? Furthermore, in what ways did the changes in style reflect the changes in John Ames?

Fathers and Sons

"A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension." (7)

A prevailing theme in Gilead is the relationship between parents and their children, and in particular between fathers and sons. Often there's a tension at the core of those relationships, and it's that tension that influences the sons' future beliefs. Since there are so many facets to this theme thanks to the great number of parent/child combinations, I thought the most logical place to begin was with John Ames and his relationship with his son - who he is confident will be become "an excellent man," but who he claims he "will love absolutely even if you are not" (73) vs. his relationship with his namesake, John Ames Boughton - old Boughton's "Prodigal Son" and the godson John once claimed he "was never able to warm to" (188). What might account for John's ability to forgive one son of anything versus his struggle to forgive the other for anything? In what way is John's history with his brother, father, and grandfather affecting these present-day relationships?

Human Nature

The consistency of human nature becomes a core question in the novel's second half. At one point in the novel (pg. 151-153) Jack forces the question of whether or not a person can ever really change, leading John to admit that he believes a person can change their behaviors, but never his essential nature. John's wife disagrees, saying "A person can change. Everything can change." So, what do you think? Can we ever really change our natures? Did Jack change? What about John? What might account for John's opinion on this issue vs. his wife's?

Additionally, how does this question of the changeability of a person's nature affect another major theme in this novel: Forgiveness?

Symbolism

Although I noticed several symbols working in Gilead, it struck me that the most dominant one was water - baptismal water, rainwater, water from a sprinkler, tears, lakes, etc.

In particular, three passages spring to mind: the story of the slave tunnel that collapsed and turned into a lake (58-63), which is then followed with John's observance of his son playing in a sprinkler (63), which is followed with the story of how John's mother washed his grandfather's shirts (80-81). How does water operate on a symbolic level in this story? How might it connect to some of the novel's larger themes?

Locations

In the Bible, Gilead became the home of one of the twelve tribes of Israel, and thus a safe haven for those who were "lost in the wilderness." In what way is this an appropriate title for this town? For this novel? How does Kansas (and the story of John's abolitionist grandfather) factor in?

Misc.

Since an argument can be made that this novel is really a long character study, I'm curious what everyone thought of the narrator. He's old and wise, but also clearly flawed. What do you make of his flaws? Are they forgivable? Did he resolve them?

What of his tendency to illustrate his points with religion - did John come off as too "preachy" to you?

What about the role of religion in this book? We're not an overly religious group of people, so I'm curious to what extent this may have affected your reading of the novel. Also, I sensed a very clear line drawn here between religion and faith. (And there's a question in there somewhere. I'm just not entirely sure yet what it is...)

What about the role of racism and slavery in this book?

What about the importance of names in Gilead - both namesakes and those characters who are never (or hardly ever) named?

We are so far ahead of Newsweek, we're behind them

I think it's interesting that in this week's edition of "Newsweek," the editors name our current novel Gilead one of the top 50 books to read now. Nice work, Maggie!