Coming to the end of Marilynne Robinson's Home. I might have said this before, but I'll say it again. The black sheep—or maybe the white sheep—of a family may see Jack Boughton in him/herself, or him/herself in Jack Boughton. But the difference may be that one does not believe in divine grace. (Not that Jack does, but Robinson does.) That is, not every Jack ever finds his Della. I don't know how far back in the history of narrative this goes, but both the readers/hearers of fiction and its authors want happy endings. Looking over my own work, I see that as an author I'm no different. But I wonder if there is not something basically false and wishful about the whole happy-ending thing. Even so, is it altogether a bad thing? I don't know. Maybe art ought to inspire hope. But—as much as I respect Robinson—if that's the idea, I think it would be better to seek hope in truth rather than religion. Or the (perceived) imperatives of storytelling.