There are pithy, erudite things a reviewer could say to impress a reader regarding one’s grasp of literary devices. It makes for a pretentious, boring review though. Suffice it to say, Peck masterfully employs a great many of them in the construction of Gilda Trillim. I’d rather skip any spoilers (not that they’d give you the slightest clue about where this tale takes you) and discuss the relationship I had with this book instead.
I’ll state flat out that I was not among the readers who found this a page turner nor an easy read. It took me months to get through it, unable to decide if I liked or loathed Gilda as a character, perhaps because she struggled on the page with so many of the questions I grapple with on a daily basis, to the point of becoming impatient with myself, and so, her, for yammering on about things that may not matter when it comes to getting out of bed and getting on with things. It is the quintessential problem of the introverted, intellectual depressive.
Perhaps it is the format, which is done in thesis form, where it didn’t escape me that a young male graduate student was taking on the task of deciding whether a mature, successful female Mormon author was a genius or a madwoman, as if those have to be mutually exclusive. As if sampling “vignettes” of a complex woman’s life in retrospect could afford enough insight to make that call when even her best friend wasn’t certain at times.
But that is the crux of the matter, in my opinion, where the bizarre events in Gilda’s life were catalysts to her musings that alternately separated her from others but also caused her to love and connect to them in the vain hope someone might “get” her. When her Mormon mother or best friend could not meet her at her level of understanding, the isolation of it was apparent, which I see as a universal problem between human beings. I would read, sometimes only a few paragraphs and then meander in my mind for days, knowing that there was no one to discuss what might seem trivial but held me in an obsessional grip.
Ultimately, what I came away with, without naming exactly what impressed me (I hate spoilers and I loathe designating what should or should not hold meaning to others- especially in a book addressing spiritual matters), is this: I related to Gilda’s search for meaning and her orientation/relatedness to spirituality as a way of providing both context and means to make sense out of suffering. I share the quality of curiosity with Peck’s character, which has also led me into an odd life with experiences I’ve had simply because I was open to them, as earlier resolution of trauma brought me to the solid belief of life unfolding as a series of lessons as deep as we allow them to be. I was open to them because events which caused suffering, some to the extent this fictional character experienced, had to be put into some sort of context in order to overcome and resolve the damage. My spirituality has risen to the occasion of my willingness to invite, explore and learn.
Taken in this light, it hardly matters which aspects of Gilda I found relevant or ridiculous. And that leads me to say that sometimes the most ridiculous can become the most relevant. Like Gilda, my deepest spiritual experiences are not made more real or sound by virtue of analysis or approval by outside sources. I embrace the fact the character did not impose her beliefs on others- she was not seeking to start a new religion based on her personal experiences and what others thought about them were immaterial- in the end, it fostered her own journey of self-actualization and belief in how her experiences drove her actions to pull closer to the source of her inspiration. Gilda lived in the authenticity of her current understanding.
The process of others attempting to comprehend her artistic expression, her visions, her encounters, even her sanity, speaks volumes to the tendencies of others to think their agreement or opinion has anything to do with our most intensely spiritual events. They have a need to painstakingly research or affirm Trillam’s trials- style her as either a real or false prophet. It is obvious their conclusions matter not the least bit to Gilda, who makes herself busy delving deeper into what it is that pulls her closer to communion with what she deems as beloved and worth the sacrifice. She is justifiably cautious in casting her pearls before swine in oversharing with the incredulous. We learn to hold our truths close to the vest when it serves to sustain our existence.
In the end, I do believe that is what defines our lives as truly meaningful, the ways in which we connect to ourselves and to the source of whatever drives not only our survival but our development and possible attainment of apotheosis. It begins with ongoing incorporation of the details of our lives, even the minutia, in how we process those defining events in our life and use it for good or for ill. How we respond to ourselves and others with compassion, even if we can’t exactly relate to the repetitive painting of an apple seed or being taken as a prisoner of war with all its attendant abuses. It continues with accepting stewardship of our own faith journey, respect the journey of others and in how we evolve and interact with the universe.
Gilda Trillam ripped my guts out an often made me want to throw the book across the room or set fire to specific passages. Many nights I fell asleep with my face in its pages. In retrospect, when the story hit me where I lived, touched on the rawness of my own pain, my body shut down and went into the dreamscape to take me to a broader scope and deeper level of process. But then, that means Peck engaged me in a passionate experience, which is something I deliberately court in my life. And so, while I wrestled with this book, specific vignettes, many paragraphs, and sometimes even one sentence, I will call it a piece of sublime literature, as only a few works of fiction have evoked such a visceral response in this mindful reader.