I think I've done the same thing to The Backslider that I did with God's Army -- I've sort of retrofitted my experience. When I think really candidly about my initial experience with God's Army, I didn't like it. I picked at all the details like the haircuts, the mission van, the relationship between Elder Allen and Sister Fronk, etc. But as time went on, I came to appreciate it more and more and eventually recognized it as this really important work of art in my life.

When I first read The Backslider, I remember really enjoying the prose but not necessarily recognizing the version of Mormonism the book depicted. I enjoyed it and I was moved by it. More than anything, I remember being glad to find a "Mormon" novel that was a whole, complete story that was well-written. I'd just finished another highly-praised Mo-novel and was left utterly cold. The Backslider warmed me up.

But as time went on, the book became more and more meaningful to me. I went back to it to read the lovely, glittering descriptions of Utah landscape but also to re-read about the Cowboy Jesus. Frank's climactic, hallucinatory/visionary encounter with a cigarette-smoking Savior who spoke common sense and compassion just blew me away. Not just because the older I got, the more I felt I needed a Savior like that, but because I recognized that the book succeeded in being both literarily accomplished and spiritually meaningful. It was a good book on every level.

I haven't reread the book in full for a couple of years and probably should.

Like Darlene, I give thought to who I recommend the book to. Not because I'm scared of what they'll think per se, more just worried that they won't appreciate something that's wonderful.

(On a different but related note, I should point out that Signature's decision to publish an anniversary edition of the book with an actual picture of a Cowboy Jesus on the cover is one of the worst, most misguided design choices I've ever seen. For shame, Signature Designer, for shame.)

I agree with you, Mark, about it not being about a Mormonism that I recognize. In fact, if someone had handed me this book and told me it was written by an Lutheran or other non-member, I would have felt that same old sick frustration at the author's misunderstanding of, or shallow depiction of, Mormonism. So why was it more acceptible when I knew it was written by a member? Maybe the fact that I had just been introduced to Stephen Robinson's "Believing Christ" in the same summer as I encountered "The Backslider." I was firmly convinced that as a religion we have neglected grace. I was quick to believe Levi's criticisms as accurate, on the whole. Although I know many, many sane, Christian, joyful Mormons, and there doesn't seem to be a single one in this book. The eternal missionary that is bred into me wouldn't want people reading this book as being representative as Mormons as a whole, although I wouldn't mind them knowing that a believing Mormon wrote it. (At least we recognize our flaws, right?)

Which, of course, leads us back into that old discussion of whether the extent of orthodoxy of an author should affect our own reactions to a piece of "Mormon" literature. Because, of course, I don't know that Levi was (or is) a "believing Mormon."

And like you, Mark, I was stunned, more this time than the first time, by the beauty of the passages describing the landscape. I loved how Frank's appreciation of that beauty became a plot element, really. We ache for him in his mistaken belief that even his joy in God's creation is a sin.

I agree with you, Chris, that there were too many anecdotes at times. It seemed to me this time that it went on a little too long. Knowing what was coming at the end, I was thinking, "All right already! Move along!" about two-thirds through the book. Maybe because I was so dang uncomfortable, though, and couldn't wait for relief. And I agree about the Jeremy/Alice character. Did finishing the book change your mind? I didn't feel like there was any forward motion from that part of the plot once Jeremy was sprung from the psych ward. Maybe the pit was supposed to be symbolic, with Frank climbing down with him. What do you think? I kind of didn't see the point, but maybe I missed something.

Oh, maybe Dora counted as the one token sane Mormon.

I like your observation that Levi is portraying a Mormonism many of us are not familiar with--that encapsulates much of my response to aggressive Mormon literature. I can't possibly dispute the author's experience, but I find that I my own experience is with a very, very Mormonism and that disparity makes it much more difficult to engage deeply with the work.

As a (relatively young) non-Utah Mormon, The Backslider always came off as too western, too Utah, too rural, and too distant in time for me to connect with on a personal level. I admire both the effort and the execution, but for me The Backslider remains an intellectual admiration rather than a personal or emotional one.

A lot of artistic/literary Mormon fiction does that to me. They seem to be jousting with the ghosts of cultural assumptions that I recognize as memories of my youth, but not as recent active concerns. Which, I suppose, is a feature of an entire class of literature--to explore (and perhaps even come to peace with) the demons that haunted our formative experiences.

No, the Jeremy/Alice character didn't ever work out for me, including the pit, which I didn't get at all except maybe as a symbol of what people do to themselves through Mormon belief? I find myself imagining the novel without this thread, if instead we'd had Frank feeling recurring temptations to sever his own self, or if Jeremy's self-castration was as far as it went and with more info on why he did it, without the weird girl name and dolls and subsequent behavior, which I never understood. Maybe it was all just meant to be humorously grotesque? (The Alice stuff was funny at times.)

Even though I've read this book before and heard it discussed a lot, I felt an unexpected flush of emotion when I got to the cowboy Jesus, even felt my eyes well up. I liked how Frank finally got to meet a Jesus on his own terms and in a way that he could grasp and relate with. Of course, it's Marianne's Jesus that Frank encountered, not Mormonism's. It's the simple Jesus of what I call terrestrial-kingdom Christianity.

I really don't know why Frank was so mixed up about marital sexuality; if some subtle motivations for this were built in, they didn't stick in my head. I wonder if it would have helped to build in more back story about Frank's parents or something, how somebody's warped attitudes affected his thinking? Maybe there was already some warped sexuality from the mother, but I can't recall it—I mainly remember how she was extreme about food, not sex. My experience of Mormons is that we're plenty indulgent with the pleasures of the world that don't directly contradict the commandments, and in fact we underplay some of our own commandments (meat, etc.). The only extremists I remember knowing growing up were some Utah County cousins who didn't allow TV or candy, but they still did some fun stuff too.

I think the idea of not having sex except to procreate children went along with polygamy, didn't it? Hopefully, a polygamous husband would always have at least one wife with whom to keep trying, even while others were pregnant and thus off limits. Not fair to the pregnant wives, though...

Overall, I loved rereading this and enjoyed it more than I expected. I definitely see it as kicking against the pricks of Mormon culture and belief, but I can relate to that impulse to quite a degree, even if I don't know where all the novel's self-denial hangups really came from. I guess maybe they're just an exaggeration of the Mormon urge to be perfect?