Gilead

 It's 1956. The Reverend John Ames is 76. He has a young wife, and a very young son. Accustomed to physical activity he chafes against the physical ailments that dog his old age.

Delighted to become a father so late in life, he's sad that there's no chance he'll live to see his son grown up. So he sets himself the task of writing a long letter for his son to read when he reaches adulthood. It's to be full of the kind of love and guidance that he would have wanted to offer any child of his, plus the stories of his own father and grandfather – an extraordinary character who lost an eye in the Civil War and who, given half a chance (or less), would steal from his own family and congregation and give their things to other, in his eye, needier folk.

Gilead – the text of this letter – is a quiet, elegiac novel, riddled with gentle and heartfelt intelligence, loads of theological and philosophical debate and some fabulously funny anecdotes. The prose is beautiful: understated and perfectly-formed. Ames is a wonderfully-realised character: flawed but self-aware; forgetful (given to repeating himself and meandering off-message) but also host to – and able to articulate – an impressive array of vivid memories. A gorgeous, thought-provoking read.