John Schlimm's book called Five Years in Heaven is a compilation of stories which take place during a period of time he spent with a nun who lived in St. Joseph's Monastery in Pennsylvania (which has since closed). And while I appreciate the sentiment of his tales, his writing lacks something to be desired.
"The snow was scalloping the porch's edge in undulating patterns, as if Mother Nature were gentling [sic] wielding a wide brush dipped in ivory paint." Or this one: "The snow crunched like toasted bread crumbs under my feet as I hurried toward the long porch leading to the shop."
Snow is snow. A writer doesn't need to tell us what snow is like in order to draw us into the book.
Now, I don't intend to be cruel, but while the premise of the book is sound---Schlimm's relationship with Sister Augustine and the insights she shared with him about life, the real truths are lost in his effusive writing. Forget all the descriptions. Get to the heart of the talks and stop the flowery writing. He holds the story together well, but with all his endless light-hearted comments about her cat, Blitzen, and overly-descriptive sentences, the urge to throw the book was strong.
Way too precious for me. I did appreciate his sincerity, but some strict editing over his dialogue would've made the book more serious reading and less like a schoolboy bragging on his favorite teacher.
(i received this book free to review from waterbook/multnomah)
