Gilead: A Novel (Marilynne Robinson, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2004)

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.

And so begins Marilynne Robinson's award-winning novel, Gilead. I've heard about this literary treat for years and finally resolved to read it in 2021. The novel's main character, Rev. John Ames, and I share a few things in common: we are both ordained ministers (he in the Congregational tradition, I in the Methodist tradition), we are both aging (I in my mid-50s and he in his late 70's), we both have loquacious, interior lives (his reflecting back into the late 1800s, mine reflecting back into the late 1900s), we both desire to leave a legacy (neither of us with much in terms of financial largesse, but much in the depths of life's interiority).

This is not a fast-paced piece ridden with glib conversation and surface characterization. While it does not require immersion in the 1950s (the era in which he writes this, his personal memoir) nor the cacophony that was Kansas and Iowa in the pre- and post-Civil War era (the era of his grandfather, an ardent and eccentric abolitionist, about whom he reflects often), it does require an appreciation for the way the human heart and mind process time, relationships and legacy.

Briefly, the story encapsulated in the midst of Ames' reflective work is that of a Congregational minister and a Presbyterian minister who are neighbors in small-town Iowa. Friends from the time they were young, Ames describes the texture of a relationship that has morphed over the years. At the center of the story is Ames' young son, his only biological son born from his marriage to a woman more than 40 years his junior. In the background, and making an occasional appearance, is his namesake, though not his biological son. His namesake, the son of his Presbyterian minister, is a befuddled, spiritually vacuous, doubter who is never able to make a sound decision. 

Robinson captures the essence of what it means to make peace with one's past, as well as insightfully helps the reader traverse the complexities of lifelong relationships, their joys and disappointments. While a serious book, it is not somber, and it is peppered with brief witticisms on the memoirist's part, appropriate to a health-challenged, aging man in his late 70's

It is, all told, a taste of the biblical "balm of Gilead," a time of gentle reflection, capturing the lamentations of aging and the deep-set need to leave a meaningful legacy for the next generation.

Snow (John Banville, Hanover Square Press, 2020)

An atmospheric, literary treat in the mystery genre, John Banville's Snow is and is not what you expect it to be. It is mystery in the Agatha Christie mode. Full of contextual description, relying on the ever-present snow motif, nestled in 1957 Ireland, with the characters you might expect: a Catholic priest whose sudden death is surrounded in intrigue, the obligatory detective in an unknown geographical locale, the esoteric personalities of a small community. And, of course, there is the overshadowing presence of the Roman Catholic Church and its hierarchy, depicted at the height of its influence in post-World War II Ireland. That's what you might expect.

You might not expect, however, the author's beautiful use of language. Whether he is loquaciously describing the falling snow, its variations and evidences, or in recording the unique dialects in this southeastern Irish community, Banville has crafted a literary volume unlike most mystery books you have read. Truth be told, there are times when his descriptions are so captivating and multi-layered, the reader becomes either enchanted or disoriented (you choose which), losing sight of the facts in evidence.

Especially notable is Banville's close attention to historic contextual detail. He carefully describes the eccentricities of 1957 automobiles (down to the way the gears are engaged). He reminds the reader that heating systems in 1957 Ireland are not like those of 2020. Flowing descriptions of clothing and food allow the reader to step back more than sixty years in time.

Another unexpected pleasure is his generous development of character. Unlike most popular mystery authors, Banville invests time and eloquence in his intriguing cast of characters. They are complex, unique and never relegated to the banality of much modern mystery writing.

In the midst of the beauty and depth of Snow, there is a final quality you might not expect. The reader (even one not enamored with character depth, expansive vocabulary and descriptive context) will deduce quite early in the book the cause for the priest's bloody demise, as well as the instigator of said death.

But wait. Are you sure? Do you know for certain who the killer is?

While there are enough details to allow the reader to close the book with some sense of finality, there is the nagging feeling that perhaps there is more to come. Perhaps Detective Saint John (yes, that is his first name, pronounced "Sinjin") Strofford (yes, that is with an "r") is not quite finished. With this case or others to come. Stay tuned!