Upon seeing the phrase “Pulitzer Prize” stamped on the cover of Gilead , I knew to appreciate this book on an intellectual level. However, Marilynne Robinson’s gentle yet provocative prose quickly transcends intellect and moves into spiritual and emotional realms that cannot help but to emboss meaning on the reader. Robinson’s 22- year hiatus from published writing quickly comes to a close with the particularities of her thoughtful prose and the inevitable designation of this book as a classic.

Congregationalist minister John Ames begins his narration at the age of 77 in the midst of what the reader knows to be a failing battle with personal health.

In the constant stream of narrative to his son, Ames moves fluidly in and out of present existence—Gilead, Iowa in 1956—and retrospection, which reaches from his fiery grandfather and the Kansas abolitionist movement of the 1850s to the Spanish influenza to world wars. The linear story line follows the course of Ames’s daily existence—his unknown illness, neighbors’ visits and most significantly, his much younger wife and their six-year-old son. These events are all ordinary, but Robinson charges them with significance and an extraordinary sense of purpose that belies their banality.

Ames describes his writing as a series of letters to his son. Ames is continually addressing “you,” but the book is arranged in the typical chapter format. He says, “I’m writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you’ve done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God’s grace to me, a miracle.” While he is speaking to his son, the reader cannot help but transpose the comments onto his or her own life because of the constant repetition of “you,” which adds another layer of personal meaning to an already rich textual experience.

As a minister, it follows that Ames reflects on a variety of universal concepts and one of my favorite of Ames’s thoughts is on the afterlife. “I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that mean the whole world to us.” Somehow calling sex and death “procreating” and “perishing” validates these aspects of the human condition as both universal and significant, and Robinson does an excellent job of keeping clear of pretensions.

This sentiment perhaps reflects the thoughts of many college students who struggle with these so-called “big concepts” in light of the more daily concerns of homework and friends. In essence, procreating and perishing are vague outlines of the future, but barring an unusual circumstance or tragedy, they have little bearing on our every day life. While not implying that we should be constantly preoccupied with deep, dark thoughts, Gilead encourages some pensive reflection.

The genius of Robinson’s writing lies in her particular balance of evincing deep, spiritual thoughts with prose that is enjoyable for its aesthetic or literary qualities. You don’t have to be a deeply religious person to get something out of this book; Robinson will lead you on a subtle but profound journey of self-reflection that is as natural as her descriptions of wind on the Kansan prairie.