"There is so little to remember of anyone -- an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with habitual dreaming fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long."
When I Was a Child I Read Books: Essays, Marilynne Robinson Author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning Gilead, Robinson is already a legend in her own right, and these essays on the state of the world are as tightly imagined and insightful as ever.
Say that we are a puff of warm breath in a very cold universe. By this kind of reckoning we are either immeasurably insignificant or we are incalculably precious and interesting. I tend toward the second view.
This National Book Critics Circle and Pulitzer Prize winner takes the form of a letter from a father to his son: towards the end of his life, Reverend John Ames pens an account of himself and his forebears.