Thomas Merton's Autobiography, My Impressions
There are a few popular Catholic writers who I just can’t get into. One is St. John Henry Newman. I’ve always found his prose too difficult to enjoy. Similarly, though I appreciate Dante, I’ve always struggled through the Divine Comedy. Obviously, this is subjective to my experience. When I started reading Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain over two years ago, I wondered if I was going to have a repeat of the experience I’d had with Newman. I was surprised by how boring his book was. I wondered how such a long and unexciting book had inspired so many young men to join the Trappists. His early childhood story of being orphaned wasn’t even that compelling to me, nor was his toe-infection. His wanderings around the earth with his artist father had been confusing, but his college years proved the hardest to follow. I couldn’t keep up with all the names and details. None of the characters seemed to have much flesh and blood to them. The whole thing seemed fairly abstracted. Worse, M