Genre: Literary
Publisher: Picador
Released: September 2009
Reviewed by Jonathan Schindler
What does it mean to be home in Gilead, Iowa? For Glory Boughton, it signifies a coming down in the world, a broken engagement, a forced retirement from teaching, and caring for her father—a retired Presbyterian minister—in his last days. For Glory’s prodigal brother Jack, whose return to Gilead after twenty years sets the town quietly abuzz, Gilead is a place of last hope, where grace might be found and new life begun.
Readers familiar with Marilynne Robinson’s Pulitzer Prize–winning Gilead will already know the basic plot of the Orange Prize–winning Home. Home takes place over the same time period as Gilead, and in the same place, but it follows different characters than the earlier book. Whereas Gilead was Reverend John Ames’s first-person account of the events surrounding Jack’s return, a letter of sorts written to his young son, Home is a third-person account specifically following Glory Boughton, a minor player in Ames’s record.
Readers desiring a plot-driven narrative may be bored with Home. But what Home lacks in plot it makes up for in rich characterization. The characters are slowly, methodically drawn. Robinson’s gift for subtle observation and nuance gives the characters a weight that convinces the reader of their reality. But much like relationships in the real world, the reader’s getting to know the characters is not a quick process. The reader must inhabit Gilead in order to understand its people. Robinson does not allow for snap judgments or easy dismissals; she lets the reader know her characters in all their humanity. For this reason, it is impossible to read Home quickly. It is a book that must be savored.
And the savoring brings its own rewards. For much of the book, I liked what I was reading, was interested in the relationships that were forming, and cared about the characters. But I didn’t realize how much I cared until the final third of the book. I found myself feeling the characters’ grief, laughing with them, and desiring their good ends. It is to Robinson’s credit that she was able to produce such emotion discreetly, without the manipulative methods we’re familiar with from Hallmark commercials and many human interest stories, which seek to manufacture sentimental feelings in brief snapshots. In contrast, the feelings that Robinson conjures are the direct product of her painstaking catalogue of the characters’ lives.
The book must also be savored because of its wisdom. Home explores what it means for the prodigal to come home. Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son tells us much about his heavenly Father, but how might the story look in an earthly context? In Robinson’s book we have a loving father, worn out from twenty years of waiting, still happy to have his son back but battling his own feelings of bitterness and regret. We have a son who, while trying to enjoy the pleasures of home, still hears the siren call of the world and feels the urge to continue his travels in a distant land. We have those outside the family who know the prodigal’s transgressions, and we have their reactions to his return. And we have a younger sister, the one who didn’t leave, who still has her inheritance, but who is able to bestow the grace that seemed out of the older brother’s reach in Jesus’ parable. Robinson’s novel is a multi-layered and powerful meditation on what it means to be lost and (possibly) found.
Home is a work of genuine beauty, but in some ways an ordinary beauty. It is an escape from the fast-paced world we live in, a reminder of an earlier time, but also a reminder that we inhabit a world of ordinary graces, where the magnificent suffuses the mundane, where we can appreciate the comforts of home.
Review copy provided by Picador.