Coming in not even a little hot, but I was also compelled + vaguely disquieted by Gilead when I read it, and I enjoyed the insights in the linked reviews, as well as the wide range of subjective reactions to the prose, ha.
I... I have to admit I was reminded of Gilead most recently and absurdly by watching Conclave. It feels VERY silly to compare a piece of literary fiction that, whatever its flaws, certainly strives for psychological and theological depth... to a campy quasi-political thriller that only at the very end veers into weird messianic hopes of redemption for a corrupt Church by the grace of, for once, not driving the saintly stranger-outsider from the door... but I think the comparison occurs to me because, indeed, Robinson seems to love Ames and expect the reader to find him lovable largely on the strength of his ability to receive an externally-mediated revelation. As all the reviewers note, he's intensively passive (sometimes passive-aggressive), and his great moment of grace is the chance to see his own limitations, cowardice, and vanity from the outside; not to save himself but to be saved. It's like Emma Woodhouse marveling over her stupidity/exalted by humble gratitude that it hasn't ruined everything, to make another odd comparison--except in the case of Emma that comes on the heels of an active struggle for control, whereas with Ames Robinson more gestures than commits to the idea that his stubborn, self-imposed hermitage is as much an act of pride as love.
I do think Gilead would be more successful if it was willing to hold Ames accountable for his inaction, rather than telling a story of involuntary blindness pierced by involuntary insight. I believe that Robinson wants to sustain the paradox of compassion and respect for the individual able to change, however late, and recognition for the cost of the time it took, but I think part of the problem is that she has too little faith in the reader's ability to independently see value in Ames' history-keeping and devotion to the place--and has a very tender, sentimental feeling for it herself--so that the narrative feels overstuffed with reminders that the local, the rooted, the deep rather than the broad is irreplaceable, and the attempts to ironize his defensiveness often come across as mere scrupulous modesty on his part. One of the reasons Remains of the Day really works is because Ishiguro is willing to let Stevens make himself ridiculous constantly, rather than always rushing to reassure us of some level of self-awareness, even if not one that leads to actual growth.
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Date: 2025-05-06 06:27 pm (UTC)I... I have to admit I was reminded of Gilead most recently and absurdly by watching Conclave. It feels VERY silly to compare a piece of literary fiction that, whatever its flaws, certainly strives for psychological and theological depth... to a campy quasi-political thriller that only at the very end veers into weird messianic hopes of redemption for a corrupt Church by the grace of, for once, not driving the saintly stranger-outsider from the door... but I think the comparison occurs to me because, indeed, Robinson seems to love Ames and expect the reader to find him lovable largely on the strength of his ability to receive an externally-mediated revelation. As all the reviewers note, he's intensively passive (sometimes passive-aggressive), and his great moment of grace is the chance to see his own limitations, cowardice, and vanity from the outside; not to save himself but to be saved. It's like Emma Woodhouse marveling over her stupidity/exalted by humble gratitude that it hasn't ruined everything, to make another odd comparison--except in the case of Emma that comes on the heels of an active struggle for control, whereas with Ames Robinson more gestures than commits to the idea that his stubborn, self-imposed hermitage is as much an act of pride as love.
I do think Gilead would be more successful if it was willing to hold Ames accountable for his inaction, rather than telling a story of involuntary blindness pierced by involuntary insight. I believe that Robinson wants to sustain the paradox of compassion and respect for the individual able to change, however late, and recognition for the cost of the time it took, but I think part of the problem is that she has too little faith in the reader's ability to independently see value in Ames' history-keeping and devotion to the place--and has a very tender, sentimental feeling for it herself--so that the narrative feels overstuffed with reminders that the local, the rooted, the deep rather than the broad is irreplaceable, and the attempts to ironize his defensiveness often come across as mere scrupulous modesty on his part. One of the reasons Remains of the Day really works is because Ishiguro is willing to let Stevens make himself ridiculous constantly, rather than always rushing to reassure us of some level of self-awareness, even if not one that leads to actual growth.