Marilynne Robinson’s multiple award-winning novel, Gilead, had been languishing on my shelf for years, unread and ignored. Even after I met the author at last year’s National Book Festival and got a signed copy (thanks to my friend, Susan – which meant I actually had not one, but TWO unread copies of the book), it wasn’t until my church book club chose it as one of their spring selections that I finally got around to reading it. And even then, I didn’t finish it in time for the meeting (I really have to stop waiting until the last minute to read book club books) but I was bound and determined to finish. We took a weekend trip to Nashville a couple of weeks ago and I took the sequestered time on the road to read the last few chapters – telling myself that I could not move on to any of the other books I’d packed until I read the last page of Gilead.

So that probably gives you some idea of my feelings toward this book. It’s one of those novels that I read from time to time that reinforces the notion that my reading tastes tend more towards the low-brow end – or at the very least, that I prefer my books to have more action. The book itself is a collection of journal entries written by an elderly minister to his young son in the mid-20th century. Reverend John Ames is dying, and wants his son to know who he was and from whence he came. His writings go back and forth in time as he shares stories of his pacifist father and fiercely abolitionist grandfather, ruminations upon his personal philosophies and spiritual beliefs, the deep conflict he feels towards his namesake, the prodigal son of his best friend and fellow minister, and not least, his immense love for his wife and son.

This is a book of ideas – and while there is much discussed, virtually all of the action has happened years, if not generations, before the setting of the novel. Don’t get me wrong; Gilead is beautifully written, but it captured neither my attention nor my heart.