I just finished the book Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson. I know, Shotts, you had recommended it to me a while ago, and my mother had suggested it before that even. It seems you both know what I will appreciate, certainly in this case.
It really is difficult for me to describe how much reading that book meant to me. It kind of seared me. It succeeds on so many levels that at times it was difficult for me to think of it as fiction, and yet that sounds as if the fact that it is fiction is somehow a detraction. What a miracle that something imagined can emanate into the minds of others so entirely.
Of course, I’m sure that all of this sounds like blathering, and perhaps others would not have the same experience I had with the novel as they have not had the same experience with life, but I am deeply grateful for having had the opportunity to experience it.