G I L E AD
Marilynne Robinson
is the author of the modern classic Housekeeping—winner of the PEN/Hemingway Award—and two books of nonfiction, Mother Country and The Death of Adam. She teaches at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop.
F I C T I O N
Housekeeping
N O N F I C T I O N
Mother Country: Britain, the Welfare State and Nuclear Pollution The Death ofAdam: Essays on Modern Thought
Praise for Marilynne Robinson's Gilead
'Gilead is a book that deserves to be read slowly, thoughtfully, and repeatedly.... I would like to see copies of it dropped ontopews across our country, where it could sit among the Bibles and hymnals and collection envelopes. It would be a good reminder of what it means to lead a noble and moral life—and, for that matter, what it means to write a truly great novel.' —Anne Patchett, The Village Voice
'Good novels about spiritual life are rare. This is one of the best.'— Newsweek
'Readers with no interest in religion will find pleasure in this hymn to existence.... It's a story that captures the splendors and pitfalls of being alive, viewed through the prism of how soon it all ends.'—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
'Quietly powerful [and] moving articles of faith.' —O magazine
'American culture is enriched by having the whole range of Marilynne Robinson's work.'
—The Boston Globe
'When I first picked up this book and read a few pages, I [was] overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the language and the directness with which it spoke to my heart.... John Ames says,
'For me writing has always felt like praying,' and we are privileged to overhear this, his prayer.' —The Roanoke Times
'[Gilead] is that rarest of books. The disarmingly simple prose in this novel is filled with profound wisdom.' —The Wichita Eagle
'This is a morally and emotionally complex novel ... where every word matters.... A classic that should be read, savored, and read again.' —The Courier-Journal (Louisville)
'In the sheer beauty of its prose and the fierceness of its passion, Gilead is a work of startling power: a seemingly simple artifice that reveals more complex and finer structures the closer we approach it. It is a subtle, gorgeously wrought, and immensely moving novel.' — The Weekly Standard
'[Gilead] glows with brilliance.' —The Philadelphia Inquirer
'At times, in the middle of one quiet passage or another, the reader may sense that the
[narrator] has reached out and placed his hand on our head and blessed us with the gift of his humble, noble life.' —The Miami Herald
'At a time when so many politicians aggressively flaunt religiosity in strategic sound bites, it is refreshing to read an honest account of moral and spiritual quandaries.... Gilead is remarkable for its sensual evocation of place and keen appreciation for history as well as for its candid, often gripping, examination of conscience.' —The Women's Review ofBooks
'A novel as big as a nation, as quiet as thought, and as moving as prayer. Matchless and towering.'—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
'Exceptional in every way ... Gilead is a far more explosive and transgressive work than any other book American culture has had to deal with in years.... Whatever level it assays, Gilead masters.' — National Catholic Reporter My thanks to Ellen Levine, and to Katharine Stall and Earle McCartney.
—M.R.
GILEAD. Copyright © 2004 by Marilynne Robinson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. www.picadorusa.com Picador® is a U.S. registered trademark and is used by Farrar, Straus and Giroux under license from Pan Books Limited.
For John and Ellen Summers, my dear father and mother
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. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you've had with me, and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that.
And then you said, Don't laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother's. It's a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern.
I'm always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I've suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.
It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this—it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then—I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.
I don't know how many times people have asked me what death is like, sometimes when they were only an hour or two from finding out for themselves. Even when I was a. very young man, people as old as I am now would ask me, hold on to my hands and look into my eyes with their old milky eyes, as if they knew I knew and they were going to make me tell them. I used to say it was like going home. We have no home in this world, I used to say, and then I'd walk back up the road to this old place and make myself a pot of coffee and a friedegg sandwich and listen to the radio, when I got one, in the dark as often as not. Do you remember this house? I think you must, a little. I grew up in parsonages. I've lived in this one most of my life, and I've visited in a good many others, because my father's friends and most of our relatives also lived in parsonages. And when I thought about it in those days, which wasn't too often, I thought this was the worst of them all, the draftiest and the dreariest. Well, that was my state of mind at the time. It's a perfectly good old house, but I was all alone in
