This novel is about sanctity—not something easily within man's grasp, but a goal we are called to pursue, trusting that God's mercy will complete the journey. In this sense, it is a deeply beautiful book.
Warda, the protagonist, wins our hearts with her blend of wildness, humility, loyalty, and her love for God. “I will call you Perpetua. She was a spirited, courageous woman who became a saint. Perhaps you could do the same” (p. 79), says Father Anthony to Warda-Perpetua. This statement encapsulates the novel’s profound theme: Warda is called to sainthood, and she deeply desires it. However, the challenges she faces are so great that by the end, neither she nor the reader can definitively say whether she has succeeded.
In a poignant moment, Father Dan, while ministering to a dying slave, realizes that this simple man is a real saint—one of those whom Pope Francis would call "a saint next door." Ordinary yet deeply extraordinary. “Father Dan had never ministered to a saint before, and thought that if France could have produced a dozen such men, it would be the sanctuary of the world” (p. 239).
Father Hugh, the priest hearing Warda's confession, gives this powerful encouragement: “You do not have to bleed for your sins, because Christ has already bled for you. You must not fall into doubt and pride now. [...] Why are you so frightened of an act of love?” (p. 297). This is the teaching of the story: we can all be saints, because Christ has already shed His blood for us.
Despite its beauty, the book has a few imperfections. Some side stories are left unresolved. While character depth is important, if a subplot is introduced, I feel it should have a conclusion. I was left wanting to know what happens to Father Anthony, Father Dan, and even Father Hugh. Their stories (their words, in Father Dan's case) project towards the future, but there is no resolution, which feels incomplete. By the way, while I do feel a bit flattered in the choice of all priests as the main positive characters, I do consider it a minor flaw in the overall story.
Additionally, the use of a confession as the framing device felt overextended. Initially intriguing, it eventually becomes strained, and in the end it leads to a sense of dissonance: the story has been told to the reader, yet within such framework, it remains forever an untold secret. This creates a subtle logical paradox.
On the other hand, I appreciated the frequent shifts in narrative perspective. Though some critics found it confusing, I found it effective, except in a few moments where the identity of the narrator wasn’t immediately clear.
Overall, it’s a memorable book—rich in spiritual depth and reflection. It’s truly a shame that there isn’t yet an Italian edition.