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God bless
Marilynne Robinson. Who else among the recent Pulitzer Prize-winning
novelists writes so solemnly about the sacred American traditions
of farms, churches, families, and baseball? It's like her
values were cryogenically frozen in Iowa in 1956, where her
latest book, Home, takes place.
Glory
Boughton, disgraced by an aborted marriage, goes home to care
for her aging father, a Presbyterian minister. Glory and her
seven siblings were always intimidated by him. But no one
frustrated the Boughtons more than Jack, the prodigal son.
An alcoholic troublemaker, Jack sets the novel in motion by
showing up at the house, where he tries to outrun his disreputable
past.
Anyone
who has ever had a kind thought about authors such as Chuck
Palahniuk will probably fall asleep reading Home. It
moves at a geriatric pace. What should Glory cook for breakfast?
What if Jack doesn't come to the table on time? Does the Reverend
need to be consoled when Jack accidentally hurts his feelings?
Characters in contemporary fiction rarely behave with such
politeness and common sense.
However,
Robinson knows where to find the drama in this rigid tableau.
For the Boughtons, raised in fear of God, even the smallest
infraction is a crime against the soul. Jack especially moves
through the novel story like an electric shock, crackling
with unbidden memories and remorse. But Robinson pushes his
secrets to the background and focuses instead on the awkward
moments that arise when estranged relatives are forced to
pass the time.
Here
is Glory exploring the house:
Glory
went up to the attic, the limbo of things that had been
displaced from current use but were not in the strict
sense useless. If civilization were to collapse, for example,
there might be every reason to be glad for this hoard
of old shoes and bent umbrellas, all of which would be
better than nothing, however badly they might fare in
any other comparison. Other pious families gave away the
things they did not need. Boughtons put them in the attic,
as if to make an experiment of doing without them before
they undertook some irreparable act of generosity. Then,
what with the business of life and the passage of time,
what with the pungency of mothballs and the inevitable
creep of dowdiness through any stash of old clothes, however
smart they might have been when new, it became impossible
to give the things away. From time to time their mother
would come down from the attic empty-handed, brushing
dust off herself, and write a check to the orphans' home.
Robinson's
prose offers a lot to admire: the eerie sci-fi suggestion
that civilization might collapse; the gentle cynicism of that
"irreparable act of generosity"; the beautiful phrase, "what
with the pungency of mothballs and the inevitable creep of
dowdiness through any stash of old clothes"; and the final
humorous turn. But she can also be devastating. Here, Jack
tells Glory that he understands how a man she met at a choir
rehearsal could end up leaving her so coldly.
"Pious girls have tender hearts. They believe sad stories.
So I have heard. All to their credit, of course. And they
usually lead sheltered lives. Little real knowledge of
the world. They are brought up to think someone ought
to love them for that sort of thing, their virtue and
so on. And they are ready to believe anyone who tells
them about, you know, his angel mother, and how the thought
of her piety has been a beacon shining through the darkest
storms of life. So I have been told. And often, on a cold
night, there will be cake and coffee, absolutely free
of charge. That can bring out the hypocrite in a fellow,
if he has a thin coat or a hole in his shoe. As I understand."
Then he said, "If I had a daughter, I wouldn't let her
go anywhere near a choir rehearsal."
Home
shares a setting and most of its characters with Gilead,
the 2006 novel that earned Robinson her Pulitzer. Gilead
was composed as a letter from a dying pastor to his young
son; she infused it with rich philosophy, beautiful myths,
and a powerful, authentic voice. Home focuses on a
subsequent generation, living in the shadow of the mighty
Reverend, and on a lost son—Jack—who changes everyone's
lives. It's as if she had to write an Old Testament before
setting down a New Testament.
No one
breathes life into American values like Marilynne Robinson.
Whether touring a ramshackle attic, or breaking a choirgirl's
heart, she exposes the cruel and redemptive religiosity of
family life. Her work is a blessing.
(September,
2008)
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