I hate having to confess to giving up on any book, especially one written by an author whose work I admire. But Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, defeated me. I think it was the epistolary format that just stopped me cold. For a long time it sat solidly on my ‘To Read’ shelf in my study – a constant rebuke. I finally put it in the guest bedroom so I wouldn’t have to wilt beneath the image of that wooden cross, reminding me that I should give it another try. There is a balm in Gilead, but not for me. Not yet. Maybe later.