Thomas Merton (1915-1968), educated at Cambridge and Columbia, entered the Trappist monastery Our Lady of Gethsemani where he was ordained a priest. Amazon.com lists many books by or about him. He is regarded as one of the most significant 20th-century religious writers. (For his books I've read, click on his name.)

This book, long regarded as a modern classic for Catholics and non-Catholics alike, is a unique spiritual autobiography. It is the account of the growing restlessness of a brilliant and passionate young man whose search for peace and faith led him, at the age of 26, to take vows in one of the most demanding religious orders. The vivid images of his boyhood and young adulthood are exceptionally well presented. His growing self-criticism of his life within a circle of literate but very self-indulgent companions first led him to Catholic churches as an observer. Then, once his fear of their liturgy grew into love, he became baptized. He first considered himself as fit for a vocation as a Franciscan monk, but he fled in fear of the commitment. After an agonizing time of very deep and harsh self criticism, he attended a retreat in a Trappist monastery, where he felt he had a very great need of the discipline they demanded. Nearly half of the book tells of the difficult time he had between his baptism and his asking to be accepted as a Trappist.

He gives much detail about his path he followed up to and during the first months of his time as a Trappist. To me the book seemed to end before he became familiar with the contemplative life expected of a Trappist monk. I had hoped for more discussion of his mystical experiences, but they are only vaguely referred to, except for his very first experience that led to his idea that maybe he did indeed have the vocation to be a monk rather than a writer. In the Epilogue he describes his life as a monk with a sense of disappointment. It seems that he had been looking forward to the life of prayer and hard physical work like nearly all the Trappist monks were doing. However, his abbot decided that Merton’s true vocation was to be a monk who wrote. Merton accepted his assignment as a writer, but I sensed an undercurrent of unhappiness at his assignment. Based on the number of books he wrote, he must have spent little time doing the hard, physical work he wanted to do, in deep contemplation while so doing, as he somewhat sadly describes it. I felt sorry for him. Now that I have had a taste of Thomas Merton, I feel a “sufficiency.” Although this book is considered a modern classic, I “came away from the table still hungry,” which is something I haven’t done after reading other books of the Harcourt Brace Modern Classics series. But I am hoping his non-biographical writings will convince me that his renown is deserved.