Writing a review prior to completion of a book is not usually my preference. However, I’m currently on page 900 of this 247 page novel, so perhaps it’s acceptable in this case.

If you ever see a news story commending the fire department for getting a cat out of a tree you can be assured it was a slow news day. This 2004 Pulitzer Prize winner must mean it was a questionable year for literature.

What started out as promising and mildly entertaining, complete with the baptism of a cat, devolved slowly into drudgery. Ponderous. Laborious. Tedious. Monotonous. Dull.

I’ve fallen asleep many times to this book. The pages blur before my eyes and I wake up hours later with the outline of the Kindle screen embedded on my cheek. On the occasions when I suffer from insomnia, I’ve been grateful for Gilead, knowing I can pick it up and read a page or two and drift into deep sleep. Realistically, this happens after just a paragraph or two.

Is this a piece of modern art in the way that it is universally not understood so it must be exceptional? Or is it more of a question of a gold or blue or white dress?

Take this passage: “So I decided a little waltzing would be very good, and it was. I plan to do all my waltzing here in the study. I have thought I might have a book ready at hand to clutch if I began to experience unusual pain, so that it would have an especial recommendation from being found in my hands. That seemed theatrical, on consideration, and it might have the perverse effect of burdening the book with unpleasant associations. The ones considered, by the way, were Donne and Herbert and Barth’s Epistle to the Romans and Volume II of Calvin’s Institutes. Which is by no means to slight Volume I.”

Good night man! Calgon take me away!

Being a Christian I wanted to love this book. Also being a Christian I must be honest in my
assessment. Aimless meanderings include Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, bloody shirts, a gun,
waltzing, Maine, Nebraska, Boughton, old Boughton, young Boughton, Dan Boughton, Jack Boughton, Ames Boughton. Good luck trying to figure out who is who. Oh yes, and plenty use of the phrase “as I have said”. Which, every time I read it, made me think I’ve missed some key piece of the puzzle that would somehow make everything clear and should go back and find it. Given the number of pieces that must be missing I don’t have the foggiest idea what the picture is supposed to look like.

Vague, yet frequent, references to “your mother” conjure a death, separation, or
perhaps a dis of some sort.

The way this collection of personal journal entries is headed I’m sure the gentleman will die at some point. Leaving with a variation of joy and regret everyone of us will ultimately have at the end of our days. I’m sure the ending is beautiful for those that get there. Dear author, is it me or is it you? I reflect upon what my review says about me. Have I become calloused as to no longer be able to appreciate a good book? What have I missed?

PS. I have now finished the book, and the ending does bring things together and is beautifully written. Three stars, up from two. Proceed with caution.