All images courtesy of Joetography.
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A friend recently emailed to ask if I’d read Lila, Marilynne Robinson’s recently-released novel.
“No,” I wrote. “Stupidly, I’ve decided to reread all of Robinson’s novels before starting Lila.”
A month into this endeavor, and I’ve finished Housekeeping and have arrived halfway through Gilead, the long letter John Ames, a man well into his seventies (and terminally ill), is writing to his seven-year-old son. He pens the letter in the hopes that his son will read it many years after his death, when he’s an adult—as a way to know his father.