Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry

“This is a book about Heaven,” says Jayber Crow, “but I must say too that . . . I have wondered sometimes if it would not finally turn out to be a book about Hell.” It is 1932 and he has returned to his native Port William to become the town's barber. Orphaned at age ten, Jayber Crow’s acquaintance with loneliness and want have made him a patient observer of the human animal, in both its goodness and frailty. He began his search as a “pre–ministerial student” at Pigeonville College. There, freedom met with new burdens and a young man needed more than a mirror to find himself. But the beginning of that finding was a short conversation with “Old Grit,” his profound professor of New Testament Greek. “You have been given questions to which you cannot be given answers. You will have to live them out—perhaps a little at a time.” “And how long is that going to take?” “I don't know. As long as you live, perhaps.” “That could be a long time.” “I will tell you a further mystery,” he said. “It may take longer.” Wendell Berry’s clear–sighted depiction of humanity’s gifts—love and loss, joy and despair—is seen though his intimate knowledge of the Port William Membership.

Why on earth did I wait so long to read Wendell Berry? Also: thank heavens I read this now instead of twenty years ago. This was, I think, a perfect time for me; I just feel wistful at looking back and wondering if younger me could've appreciated it; and sad that I've missed out for so long.

“Looking back”: that's this book in a nutshell, only, what nutshell could possibly do it justice? You know the outline—old man reminisces about his life spent almost entirely in one tiny Southern town—and you're reading this review, which means you don't immediately dismiss the book as impossibly dull, which means, good, you might have the wisdom to appreciate it. And oh, there's so much to appreciate: this is one long and gentle meditation on life, the choices we make (and the ones we merely think we're making); on kindness; listening; contemplating; belonging and loneliness and greed and blindness; on small things and gratitude and decency. On the ways we find meaning—or don't. On slavery, the modern kind. Loss. And, above all, love and loving; quiet love, thoughtful love.

There's a lot I could find wrong with it: a bit more romanticizing of white Southern small-town mentality than I cared for; likewise the dismissal of travel and cultural discovery. In fact it sometimes takes a Golden-Gate suspension bridge of disbelief to accept that Jayber could've grown as he did in that environment. I was irked by the social dynamic of bottling things up, behaving just so to keep appearances—then look on myself and words I keep unsaid, and I wonder who I'm irked at. Anyhow... never mind the flaws. The story was beautiful. The language... the language! Simple words, strung together so beautifully:

But there is something else. There are moments when the heart is generous, and then it knows that for better or worse our lives are woven together here, one with one another and with the place and all the living things.

But the mercy of the world is time. Time does not stop for love, but it does not stop for death and grief, either. After death and grief that (it seems) ought to have stopped the world, the world goes on. More things happen. And some of the things that happen are good.

Wendell Berry's writing is beautifully simplistic and his way of writing moves the reader passionately through the story of ordinary Jayber Crow. A wonderful story with many lessons to be learned through the life of Port William's barber, namely, the uniquely loving outlook of the world, small towns, nature, and everyday life. I recommend this book to anyone.