This book reminds me of part of ‘Footnote to Howl’:
‘Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy!’
I leave the rest redacted as it is a tad sacrilegious, but it’s true, ‘Gilead’ does strike you as Holy.
Gilead is the diary entries of an old white man, a preacher from Iowa, who is 76, and slowly, gently, dying. He has a son of six, but he’s not done anything remarkable life, and this novel is not about anything remarkable. Yet the words of the fictional John Ames seem profound and sacred.
John Ames is undoubtedly a good person, he has a great sense of humour, and his words are measured and thoughtful.
What is the point of such an unremarkable story? If stories really are ways for us to live many lives, than there are surely few books that do this better than ‘Gilead’.