Yet she finds a potent metaphor for the human condition “in those attenuated forms so characteristic of the West – isolated towns and single houses which sometimes offer only the merest, barest amenities: light, warmth, supper, familiarity… I think of the acts of comfort offered and received within a household as precisely sacramental.”
This progression from tiny personal anecdote to sweeping survey of the state of the American psyche is, alas, the only example of its kind in the book. I say alas, because many of the prospective readers of this book, on this side of the Atlantic at least, will know Robinson mainly from her fiction, and will hope to find her non-fiction equally engaging.
In this they may be disappointed. Robinson’s preoccupation in these essays is mainly with what might be termed the elements of civilisation: community, justice, faith, education, democracy, care for the environment and for our fellow citizens, particularly as these things are represented in the United States.
These are universal concerns, but Robinson approaches them in a style that disconcertingly combines the hermetic with a certain down-home folksiness. Some of her assertions seem bizarre: “The situation of the undergraduate,” she writes, in the essay “Freedom of Thought”, “rarely encourages systematic doubt.” Unless American universities, which she describes as “the greatest in the world by any reckoning”, are very different from those elsewhere in the world, the situation of the undergraduate is surely designed to encourage precisely that.
Assertion is very much Robinson’s style in these essays, as is the adoption of an Olympian tone, as though she stood on an eminence set apart from the vulgar brawls of her fellow writers.
“I have a habit of browsing relatively respectable journalism to get a sense of the climate of opinion on this great subject, human nature,” she writes, in her essay “The Human Spirit and the Good Society”. And in the same essay she mentions The New York Times columnist David Brooks, “with whom I almost never agree”, as though her unprecedented agreement were enough in itself to validate his argument.
There are some moments of light relief in these densely argued meditations on theology, biblical scholarship, cosmology and so on. Poor Bishop John Spong is done up like a kipper for the inelegance of his prose: “Today,” the luckless prelate writes, “if one could rise from this earth in an upward trajectory…” “[the best sort of trajectory, if one is to rise at all]” Robinson interpolates.
Yet those of us who consider her an elegant writer may be startled by the ponderousness of some of her writing: the meandering clauses, a habit of retreating into the misty ineffable that must gladden the hearts of her atheistical opponents, and her inexplicable affection for the verbless sentence: “This teeming world, so steeped in its sins.”
There are passages in these essays that are thought-provoking, if only because they oblige one to sharpen one’s disagreement with Robinson’s arguments. There are also passages of beautiful writing. But admirers of her novels who hope to find an equivalent clarity and authority in her essays may find them hard work.
When I Was a Child I Read Books: Essays
by Marilynne Robinson
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In her celebrated novels, “Housekeeping” (1981), “Gilead” (2004) and “Home” (2008), Marilynne Robinson gives us “isolated towns and single houses” where the afternoon sun draws “the damp out of the grass and . . . the smell of sour old sap out of the boards on the porch floor.” It is a laconic world where adults conserve “syllables as if to conserve breath” while children brave an “outsized landscape” by day and seek shelter by night even as they long to break away from the “regime of small kindnesses” that makes home both comforting and confining.
Robinson grew up in Idaho and now lives in Iowa — places where, as she puts it in her new collection of personal and critical essays, “When I Was a Child I Read Books,” “ ‘lonesome’ is a word with strongly positive connotations.” In her lexicon, lonesomeness means the opposite of isolation. It envelops the mind and heart in unsullied nature, allowing focused apprehension of the miracle of creation, as when she remembers kneeling alone as a child “by a creek that spilled and pooled among rocks and fallen trees with the unspeakably tender growth of small trees already sprouting from their backs, and thinking, there is only one thing wrong here, which is my own presence, and that is the slightest imaginable intrusion — feeling that my solitude, my loneliness, made me almost acceptable in so sacred a place.”
One inference to be drawn from Robinson’s essays is that her novels contain a good deal of self-portraiture. When she was young, she seems to have been a prairie version of one of J. D. Salinger’s Glass children — except that rather than urbanity, her precociousness took the form of piety. “I looked to Galilee for meaning,” she tells us, “and to Spokane for orthodonture.” Only such a reverent child could have felt, as Ruth, the narrator of “Housekeeping,” feels when the boat she’s in seems about to capsize, that “it was the order of the world that the shell should fall away and that I, the nub, the sleeping germ, should swell and expand.” This kind of high-mindedness can appear a little chastising to those of us who would have worried about drowning.
But if Robinson writes with a devoutness that can alienate those who don’t share it, she also avers that wisdom is “almost always another name for humility.” Not only in Christian Scripture but throughout the Hebrew Bible, she finds a “haunting solicitude for the vulnerable.” Like many conservative critics, with whom she would otherwise disagree, she is angry at America for its putative betrayal of its founding principles. She condemns “condescension toward biblical texts and narratives, toward the culture that produced them, toward God.” She decries the diminution of religion as “a primitive attempt to explain phenomena which are properly within the purview of science.” But her anger arises not on behalf of some fanciful notion that America was once a monolithic Christian nation. She is angry, instead, at our failure to sustain the capacious conception of community with which, as she shows in a brilliant essay entitled “Open Thy Hand Wide: Moses and the Origins of American Liberalism,” America began — a community founded not on the premise that human beings are motivated primarily by greed, but as an experiment in building a society on the principle of love. She persists in believing that this experiment has not been futile: “The great truth that is too often forgotten is that it is in the nature of people to do good to one another.”
As the credo of a liberal Christian, Robinson’s new book of essays stands on its own. But it is also an illuminating commentary on her novels. In “Gilead,” for instance, the preacher who tells the tale says of his “unreposeful” grandfather that “to be useful” was his great hope and “to be aimless” his “worst fear.” In her new book, Robinson revisits this theme of Christian restlessness by decrying Max Weber’s “unaccountably influential” book “The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism” for portraying Puritans as early-to-bed, early-to-rise drones, driven to material accumulation and convinced that worldly prosperity is the best measure of worth in God’s eyes. (This version of Weber is something of a straw man, but given its popular prestige, Robinson is right to knock it down and burn it up.) Later in the volume she describes the abolitionist evangelical Charles Grandison Finney as an exemplar of what “unreposeful” has meant in the history of Christian activism — just the sort of man she had in mind in “Gilead.”
It’s not a bad idea to read Marilynne Robinson’s novels with a Bible concordance and a theological encyclopedia close at hand. In “Housekeeping,” for instance, she tells us (this reference is familiar enough that many people may not have to look it up) that “if one is lost on the water, any hill is Ararat.” More obscurely, the preacher in “Gilead” recalls reading “somewhere that a thing that does not exist in relation to anything else cannot itself be said to exist.” This is an allusion, I think, to Jonathan Edwards’s “Notes on the Mind.” But the best companion of all to Robinson’s novels may be her own essays. When, for example, in the essay on “Freedom of Thought,” she invokes John Calvin’s metaphor that “nature is a shining garment in which God is revealed and concealed,” we comprehend better the devotional descriptions of nature in her fiction.Continue reading the main story