Jayber Crow

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.