I finished Gilead earlier this week, and in what seems to be the Marilynne Robinson fashion, the end redeemed the novel. The book is one long letter from a dying man to his son. It is slow and meanders through tangents that hardly seem relevant. But of course, toward the end, it all starts to make sense; the structure and pacing serve the characters, theme, and content. I admit that I liked it, reluctantly.
I’m still working my way through Anna Karenina, but I think a few minutes I caught of a Gilmore Girls episode spoiled the ending. I’m not entirely sure they were discussing this book, though, since I walked away as soon as I heard the conversation. Ugh. I hate it when things (people, news, TV, etc.) ruin books.
