Whereas Gilead resides in the interior of Reverend John Ames as he faces his mortal expiration through a series of letters to his young child, an astounding portion of Home unfurls through scene and dialogue. Despite the narrative shift, Robinson's mastery of nuance is unparalleled as the Boughton children dance around each other and their father, and a lifetime of disappointments and unspoken hurts when, lo, the prodigal son-- Reverend Ames's namesake Jack--returns home.

Through the eyes of Jack's lonely sister Glory, we venture deeper into Robinson's magnificently subtle and tenderly rendered deconstruction of mid-century Middle America.

"So the greatest kindness you could ever have shown him was to accept the good he intended for you. You owed him that much."

There's an honesty about the hypocrisy of religion this book cracks into that was sorely missing from Gilead for me. The conversation about race relations and civil rights is just beginning in Home, although it obviously makes up a significant portion of the overarching story. While some attention was devoted to retired bygone sentiments that don't warrant rehashing, I do trust Robinson as an author and that she's going to tie it in with her statement on the inner workings of religion. Which I am here for.

Where the prose shines is in the humanness inherent in their interactions. The food that cannot be consumed until Jack arrives so is left to spoil-- but cannot be thrown away lest he never return home. And the complexity that unfurls during those haircuts. To say so much with such indirect words!