Excerpt from Jack by Marilynne Robinson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I don't know. Why not?"

"Just about anybody in the world could give you a hundred good reasons why not."

"You want a better answer. All right. It's my birthday."

"I suppose I could believe that. It wouldn't explain anything."

"Not exactly my birthday. One I choose to commemorate, when I remember it. I have to be in the right frame of mind. Sober, for one thing."

"I guess that's sad, if it's true."

"Yes. Actually, I want to feel the sadness of it. I don't, always. So I come here. And then sometimes I just come here. For the quiet."

She nodded. Pensive, he thought. Even a little downcast. Turning his strange sadness over in her mind. So he said, "I had every intention of paying you back," and regretted it.

She looked at him. "Are you really trying to talk to me about money? Do you think I've given one thought to that money?"

"I just wanted to say that I know you could interpret what happened as a kind of theft, if you didn't know I meant to get it back to you. So I wanted to say that. I've wanted to for a long time. And this is my chance. I don't expect another one."

"Ah, Jack!" she said. Jack.

A minute passed. She said, "Laugh if you want to. I'm working on a poem. That's why I came here."

He didn't laugh, but he did want to.

She said, "I know what you're thinking."

"Farthest thing from my mind."

"What is?"

"That there is no real shortage of poems inspired by graveyards. Of course," he said, "human mortality—that's another matter. Hardly touched on."

"It's another kind of poem. A prose poem, really. Not about death, either."

"I hope I'll have a look at it, when it's finished."

She shook her head. "There's not a chance in this world."

"I know. I was being polite."

"I don't know why I told you about it. I knew you'd laugh."

"I didn't." She glanced at him. "All right. I came close. It's a problem I have, even in moments of great solemnity. Which are rare, fortunately."

She said, "Maybe. Maybe they are."

"It comes upon us like an armed man. My father always said that when one of his flock fell off a barn roof or down a well or something. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Some poor codger hauled onto the cosmic stage, no chance to rehearse his lines. It's good I never considered the clerical life. Not for a minute, actually. Too much on my mind as it is." She was quiet, and then she glanced at him, as if she were considering asking him one of those questions that are moved by compassion, questions women ask. So he said, "A poet. I don't mean to sound surprised. It's just never a thing you expect. Of anybody. Not even an English teacher."

"No, not a poet. Someone who tries a line or two now and then."

He nodded. "I've tried my hand from time to time."

"Yes, I liked the little poem you wrote in my sister's Hamlet. Those lines."

"Hmm. That was your sister's book, was it. Well, she'll probably like it, too. It has had a fair success with women. Two and a half couplets! I'd finish it if I could, but it doesn't really seem to be necessary." That would keep compassion from threatening for a while. Still, her quiet had become silence, a thing he had to regret. And he had a lively fear of regret. So he said, "Praise means a lot more, coming from someone with your education."

Silence.

"That was a ridiculous thing to say, I mean, it sounded ridiculous. But there's some truth in it. Obviously."

Silence.

So he said, "I suppose you thought I wrote it for you."

"Why should that matter. I never gave it a thought."

"No, you wouldn't have. I did, though. Write it for you. Then I thought it might have seemed—forward. In retrospect. Since you don't know me. And don't intend to."

"I liked it," she said. "My sister will, too. Let's leave it there."

"Thank you."

She laughed. "You do get yourself in trouble."

Excerpted from Jack by Marilynne Robinson. Copyright © 2020 by Marilynne Robinson. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.