Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
In my mind, my reading tastes and experiences are sharply divided into what I read before Godric, and what I read after Godric. It is the book that fundamentally altered the way I read and the way I write. It is the novel that moved me to write my own. It is the canon by which I have measured every book read since. Am I gushing?
Since reading Godric, I can no longer abide reading for reading’s sake or simple story for story’s sake. I have little tolerance for words that merely convey information. Godric opened a window in my mind that has never shut and, God-willing, never will.
I challenge anyone to read this book and not be changed.
Thank you, Mr. Buechner.