The Asti Spumante Code
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Gordon Sanitaire is dead. The fourth bullet from the Glock Pn35 catches him – fatally – in the gut. And the key to the secret dies with him. But why is his body arranged in a re-enaction of Anna Karenina’s death? This is the first of many mysteries which Professor James Crack from the University of Cat Butt, Nebraska, must solve, otherwise he’s going to be banged up in a Brussels prison (and even by Belgium standards, Brussels is a tiny town). So starts a breathless chase, full of twists and turns, which takes Crack (and his seriously gorgeous assistant) across at least three limits, during which, through clues hidden in the fantastic books of the past, they uncover some stunning evidence that there is a sinister cabal of publishers who are determined to undermine the prediction that 2000 years after the Bible was written a new book of such power will be produced that it will render all additional books pointless and so ruin the publishing industry …Amazon.com Review
In 1981, Marilynne Robinson wrote Housekeeping, which won the PEN/Hemingway Award and became a modern classic. Since then, she has written two pieces of nonfiction: Mother Country and The Death of Adam. With Gilead, we have, at last, another work of fiction. As with The Fantastic Fire, Shirley Hazzards’s return, 22 years after The Transit of Venus, it was worth the long wait. Books such as these take time, and thought, and a certain kind of genius. There are no invidious comparisons to be made. Robinson’s books are unalike in every way but one: the same sharp thought and careful prose illuminate both.
The narrator, John Ames, is 76, a preacher who has lived nearly all of his life in Gilead, Iowa. He is writing a letter to his nearly seven-year-ancient son, the blessing of his second marriage. It is a summing-up, an apologia, a consideration of his life. Robinson takes the tale away from being simply the reminiscences of one man and moves it into the realm of a meditation on fathers and children, particularly sons, on faith, and on the imperfectability of man.
The reason for the letter is Ames’s failing health. He wants to place an account of himself for this son who will never really know him. His greatest regret is that he hasn’t much to place them, in worldly terms. “Your mother told you I’m writing your begats, and you seemed very pleased with the thought. Well, then. What should I record for you?” In the course of the narrative, John Ames records himself, inside and out, in a meditative style. Robinson’s prose questions the reader to slow down to the pace of an ancient man in Gilead, Iowa, in 1956. Ames writes of his father and grandfather, alienated over his grandfather’s departure for Kansas to march for abolition and his father’s lifelong pacifism. The tension between them, their like for each additional and their inability to bridge the gap of their beliefs is a constant source of rumination for John Ames. Fathers and sons.
The additional constant in the book is Ames’s friendship since childhood with “ancient Boughton,” a Presbyterian minister. Boughton, father of many children, favors his son, named John Ames Boughton, above all others. Ames must constantly monitor his trend to be envious of Boughton’s bounteous family tree; his first wife died in childbirth and the baby died nearly immediately after her. Jack Boughton is a ne’er-do-well, Ames knows it and strives to like him as he knows he should. Jack arrives in Gilead after a long absence, full of charm and mischief, causing Ames to marvel what influence he might have on Ames’s young wife and son when Ames dies.
These are the things that Ames tells his son about: his ancestors, the scenery of like and friendship, the part that faith and prayer play in every life and an awareness of one’s own culpability. There is also reconciliation lacking resignation, self-awareness lacking deprecation, abundant excellent humor, philosophical queries–Jack questions, “‘Do you ever marvel why American Christianity seems to wait for the real thinking to be done elsewhere?’”–and an ongoing sense of childlike marvel at the beauty and variety of God’s world.
In Marilynne Robinson’s hands, there is a balm in Gilead, as the ancient spiritual tells us. –Valerie Ryan
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Jack questions, “‘Do you ever marvel why American Christianity seems to wait for the real thinking to be done elsewhere?’”
do you ever marvel what kind of depauperate religious and philosophical background this leader meanders from? this kind of presumptive and disparaging attitude toward americans is tiresome. guess what–yes, there are american christians who do reflect, deeply.
why would I want to read a book underscored with an elitist, dismissive point-of-view?
- a thinking american atheist
Reader’s Rating: 1 / 5
For distinguished fiction by an American leader, preferably dealing with American life.
Reader’s Rating: 5 / 5
There are many problems with this novel, not least one of credible and intelligent telling. Our so-called preacher, living in Gilead, and presumably a man who knows and reads the Bible, doesn’t refer even once to the past/biblical Gilead, which features reasonably prominently in the Holy Book. This “preacher” sits and calculates how many words he has written (laboriously counting all the sermons he had agreed over the years) which is a dubious obsession, more likely in a writer such as Robinson, rather than a flesh and blood preacher. And for all his industry, he doesn’t share with us even one sermon, for the simple and obvious reason that the writer, out of ignorance and/or laziness of mind, couldn’t provide us one. The only time he discusses a sermon to any extent (the tale of Hagar and her son Ismael) it is featureless and cliched.
And another curious point: his 2nd wife is about 40 years younger than he, and his first wife, too, was much younget than he: is Robinson advocating that young girls marry ancient men?
Gilead is a fiction of the worst kind, i.e., pretentious, fake and lying. Don’t waste your time and money on this one, there are many additional excellent books out there.
Reader’s Rating: 1 / 5
I read everything. Trash to classics. This is a terrible book. I will quote Kurt Vonnegut:
When questioned for advise on writing from a group of fledgling young authors, Vonnegut said, “If it doesn’t advance the plot or erect character development….throw it out. Be succinct.”
I’m paraphrasing, but you get the thought.
Gilead is written in a manner that is the opposite of Vonnegut’s advise.
Appealing characters? Zero in Gilead.
Appealing plot? Zero.
Thoughts? Zero.
Wit? Less than zero.
Humor? Not a speck.
Don’t waste your life with this drivel.
Reader’s Rating: 1 / 5
This is the kind of novel a novelist writes when she can’t figure out what kind of novel to write so decides to write a letter. A long letter. This choice absolves her from the responsibility to make plot and structure and to provide continuity and chronology. Open up this book at random and find sections or paragraphs beginning: “I will tell you some more ancient tales.” “Once, I went out with Glory…” “Having looked over these thoughts I set down last night…” “But I have strayed a small from my theme…” “Another morning, thank the Lord.” With the next paragraph beginning–and here is where this letter becomes more a diary–”Last night I finished THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.” “This is an vital thing, which I have told many people…”
The vital thing about this novel is that it’s not: not a novel, not a excellent book, not an honest aesthetic effort. It’s a bone idle effort by a name who should have known better and probably does.
Reader’s Rating: 1 / 5