I have loved Marilynne Robinson’s work since I first read her novel Gilead ten years ago. I’ve returned to it many times since; for enjoyment, to be sure, but perhaps more for a sense of consolation it offers—a sense as exquisite as it is rare, born of deep, doctrinal roots. I come to Gilead again and again to drink of Marilynne’s sense of Providence as from a deep and healing well.
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