Then, as a follow-up (for clarity's sake):
There is no doubt in my mind why this won a Pulitzer. Robinson uses the English language with a mastery that suggests that she owns the damn thing. Almost as a dare against her own formidable talent, she wrote a book that breaks just about every friggin' rule that they tell writers not to break: it's in the form of a journal, written in first-person as an aging third-generation preacher living in a desolate town in the midwest telling a rather narrowly focused narrative to one person--and the reader falls right into it. It's like 250 pages of tightly-woven poetry. It makes me embarrased of everything I've ever written; but not in a bad way...in a way that reminds me why I read fiction, and want to do better at writing it.
It's that good.