It felt kind of like the Oscars, well, like the Oscars for book nerds. An evening with awards in different categories, a host who made witty remarks, and palpable excitement in the air. Two nights ago, I sat in an auditorium at the New School in Manhattan, for the privilege of listening as the twenty finalists for the National Book Award read from their work.
I had only read two of the books going in to the evening, and I only heard five minutes from each of the books nominated for the award. But still—what struck me about the selections as a whole was their religious nature. By religious, I don’t mean Christian (with the notable exception of Marilynne Robinson’s novel Lila). But I do mean works concerned with the nature of reality and of human identity. Books asking the “big questions” of purpose and meaning, of the self versus society, of morality and beauty and the possibility for grace.
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