Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson.
Excellent.
Okay, so it isn't, like, the second coming of The Brothers Karamazov, or Moby-Dick, or One Hundred Years of Solitude, or Mr. Popper's Penguins, or the May, 1956 issue of Popular Mechanics (pimped-out hovercrafts, yo), but it is mighty fine.
That said, I probably wouldn't have liked it nearly as much if I read it three years ago. Obviously, we all bring our own lives to what we read, relating, or not relating, to novels, poetry, etc, to the extent that what happens makes us reflect on our own lives, so I'll say straight-up that, beyond the frequently beautiful writing, the main reason that I felt -- and feel -- so strongly about this book is that I have a son.
I'll never read it without that being a part of my life, so I have no idea what it's like to read it without a family.
With one, though, it's strong, emotional, and moving.
Or, it was for me, anyway.
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