Aged seven, growing up in Idaho, Marilynne Robinson was in thrall to her elder brother, David. He drew, so she drew, though she could never draw as well as him. After one failed artistic effort – the simultaneous loss of proportion and potential – her brother took her to one side and said, “I’ll be the painter and you’ll be the poet.” She remembers this now with a long laugh. As a devoted younger sibling, she obeyed and “went off and started writing bad poetry in enormous quantities. That was the moment I began to define myself as a writer, although I didn’t publish a word until I was 35.”
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