★★★★☆ | Literary Fiction | Print | Own | StoryGraph | Goodreads
This spare, reflective novel is narrated by 76-year-old Reverend John Ames, who, dying of heart failure, shares lessons from his life in a letter to his seven-year-old son. The letter takes the form of a confessional journal that reveals a man who wonders at the choices he’s made, the paths not taken, an uneasy faith, and the near impossibility of living up to a father’s expectations.
There are deeply religious themes here as you would expect from a Reverend narrator (whose father and grandfather were also Reverends). The story is thick with Biblical allusions and symbolism that a Christian scholar would quickly grasp over this unchurched reader. Still, everyone would appreciate the humanistic undercurrent that marvels at the sheer joy of being alive, the mystery of it all, and the sadness of needing to leave it so soon. Again and again, this dying man implores his young son (and us) to witness and celebrate the incredible miracle of life.
Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?
The only true conflict takes place near the middle of the book and resolves itself in a morally ambiguous way. Questions linger, unanswered. I’m left with this melancholy feeling that you can’t know a person, not a Reverend, not a perennial sinner, not your father, not your son, until you’ve walked a long while in their shoes, and even then you never really know.
Favorite Highlights
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.
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. This is not a new insight, but the truth of it is something you have to experience to fully grasp.
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, 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.
It seems to me that when something really ought to be true then it has a very powerful truth, which starts me thinking again about heaven. Well, I do that much of the time, as you know.
Related: Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson