Jack
A review
When I
read Marilynne Robinson’s “Gilead” some years back, I felt it was one of the
best books I had come across in a long time. Set in in 1950s Iowa, it
consists of a long letter from a dying 76-year old Congregationalist minister
John Ames to his little son, the unexpected blessing of his old age. As Ames sifts through his memories, the story
of his family (particularly his preacher father and grandfather) and the
community which they served starts to take shape. Old pains and preoccupations
resurface - particularly those related to the minister's godson and namesake
John Ames “Jack” Boughton. A troublemaker in childhood, youth and well into
adulthood, is there the possibility of salvation for Boughton as well? Will
God's grace ever touch him?
The passage of time has not dulled my admiration for this novel, which is lyrical, poetical, infused with (a Calvinist) theology yet utterly readable. Since Gilead, Robinson returned to the fictional world she created with two other volumes – Home and Lila – which are not sequels as such but, rather, “parallel narratives” featuring the same setting and characters but told from different perspectives.
Jack is the latest addition to the fold. It is, in some ways, a prequel to the “trilogy”, in that is is set in St Louis, Missouri around a decade before the “present” of the other three novels. Its protagonist is John Ames Boughton, the troublemaker who was so much on the mind of his godfather John Ames in Gilead. Jack is the troublemaker of the family, a vagrant living a down-and-out life which also featured a stint in prison. The novel is an account of his relationship with Della Miles, a black woman and daughter of a preacher. The relationship starts off as an unlikely friendship, but soon develops into a love affair, despite the strong opposition of Della’s family.
The novel is told in the third person but, very evidently, from the perspective of Jack. Jack is an interesting case study. He is a prodigal son, a flawed character, an intrinsically good man who, however, seems constantly drawn to evil. He has, however, a strong self-awareness, which leads him to admit that he has not much to offer Della, whom he raises on a pedestal as the epitome of goodness. Much of the novel shows Jack’s tentative steps towards letting himself being overcome by love – and not just any “love”, but a transformative one laced with divine grace.
If all this sounds very theological, be prepared that it is. And whilst Gilead, despite its deep and overt religious themes, was a gripping read, I must admit that I had to make an effort to read through Jack. Certain episodes, such as a passage early on in the novel featuring a long night spent by the lovers in a cemetery (debating theology, I hasten to clarify, rather than indulging in some Goth-flavoured hanky-panky), became simply too tedious for my liking.
Obviously,
the problem might have been that I was not in the mood for heavy stuff. Indeed, there have been several rave reviews
of the novel, including one by Sarah Perry in the Guardian. Perry herself writes novels infused with theology
of a Calvinist bent (Melmoth comes to mind) and is probably much
better-placed than I am to appreciate Robinson’s “Calvinist romance”. I wish, though, that Jack were as exciting as
Perry’s theological Gothic. Or, for that
matter, as gripping as Robinson’s own Gilead.
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