Kris and I both love to read memoirs. Kris likes those memoirs that probe one’s psychological state or get into some deep story, while I like memoirs of writers and thinkers (which is not to say they don’t sometimes explore the inner world nor to say that those psychological memoirs aren’t by thinkers). In fact, I like memoirs by folks who are primarily writers and memoirs is their specialty. Like Joseph Epstein, whose other books, including the new one about Fred Astaire (Icons of America), are good but not as good as his memoir-like essays. He calls them “familiar essays” and defines such as a “line [of thinking] out for a walk.”
, and he’s a memoirist worth knowing and reading … and I expect plenty more reading of Garrett. Garrett is his own person with his own story — quite the story — but he’s got a little of Anne Lamott in him, and a bit of wit, and some Frederick Buechner and Parker Palmer, but he’s so much more than those combinations. He’s got a voice of his own and a style that is gentle, silky-smooth prose. He wonders in this book about where God will lead him, but he trusts God — but he’s not sure where God will lead him. Pensive, but not overly so.