This book has been in my Kindle queue for a couple of years, after I read a glowing review. I see that Alice McDermott's novels have all been celebrated and awarded literary prizes. And--it's exactly the kind of book that critics love, filled with precise prose and deep themes of God and morality and human happiness.

I see, also, that none of McDermott's books is particularly appealing to Goodreads readers, even her Pulitizer prize nominees and National Book Award winner. And that may be for the exact same reasons--they're carefully written, as interior monologues threaded with Big Questions, not easily digestible, plot-driven tales. There's no snappy dialogue. There is zero humor. They're the kind of books that many readers--including prodigious readers--call 'depressing.'

After I read the first two chapters, which describe a suicide that resonates through generations of faithful Catholics--families and the nuns who care for the sick and poor--I was ambivalent about continuing. Not because I don't appreciate reality or even gloom in a well-written book. But the thought of reading another 240 pages of despair laced with Catholic dogma was just not appealing.

I kept going, however, not because I was hooked--but out of a sense of duty. I bought this book, because someone gave it high marks. The author was respected, even revered. And--slowly--the book rewarded me. The story (which is utterly prosaic, until the last 30 or 40 pages) drew me in. The questions McDermott raises (and she lets the reader figure out what those questions are) are questions we all wrestle with, as members of families, churches and communities.

In the end, it was a satisfying read, if not transformative. I'll try McDermott again.