Does any writer alive get into the minds of his complicated characters better than Jonathan Franzen? I was dubious, to say the least, about a novel with a church group as its fulcrum, but the travails of Hildebrandt family--with whom I have almost nothing in common other than my race and class--could not have been more deeply absorbing. While Christianity and mental illness infuse the narrative, neither gets in the way of a story set during the early 70s as both parents and children grapple with what it means to be good and bad. I could have gone on reading about the Hildebrandts forever but I'll just have to wait for the next two installments in a projected trilogy that no doubt will rank with similar, mull-volume examinations of the American experience by Philip Roth and John Updike, my two favorite writers of the 20th century.
In the meantime, Franzen has given this atheist plenty to chew on.
True Christian faith always burned from the edge.
It was strange self-pity wasn’t on the list of deadly sins; none was deadlier.
To walk away from his house without having surrendered herself —to be bathed in God’s approval; to know for once that she deserved it—was immeasurably better than to surrender.
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