Elizabeth Strout

I’ve written several times on social media about how much I admire the writing of Elizabeth Strout. I came to her books only fairly recently, although I had seen the praise lavished on her in previous years. What spurred me to read her was seeing a Sky Arts TV adaptation of Olive Kitteridge starring Frances McDormand and Richard Jenkins, with cameos by Peter Mullan and Bill Murray. I read the book shortly afterwards and loved it. Here was a heroine who was not always good; who could be outspoken and grumpy; who loved fiercely but didn’t often show it; who admitted to having regrets.

Olive was a doughty schoolteacher married to the local pharmacist, Henry. She was as spiky as her husband was emollient; as ready to offend as he was to befriend. She lived in a beautiful house overlooking the water in Maine, and probably thought she could have done better in life. By the time, she realised she was actually blessed, it was too late. Olive was never wicked or malicious, so the reader rooted for her even when she was bad. And o, when she was bad she was horrid. But who could stifle a giggle when she heard her new daughter-in-law bitch about her at her wedding, and secretly vandalised some of her clothes in revenge?

Like many of us, Olive had a romantic perception of what her life would be like. And when it wasn’t, she took refuge in fantasies. One of them was the mutual flirting with a chain-smoking teacher colleague who could quote poetry at her. Yet the reader could tell that she would become frustrated with his fag butts and dreaminess if she had to live with it.

One of the funny early moments in both TV drama and book is when her husband Henry develops a crush on a young woman, Denise,  who comes to work at his pharmacy. Like him, she is all sunshine and smiles, bantering with locals and hungry for affection. Olive detects his crush and snidely refers to Denise as ‘your girlfriend.’ The TV adaptation featured a droll scene where Henry persuaded Olive to have Denise over to dinner. The lack of grace and effort shown by Olive is hilarious, and reminds me of my mother’s own ability to be cutting: ‘ Is your friend going home now?’ However, the difference is that Olive harbours no malice. She is flawed, but still someone you would want as a friend.

It is a huge shock to Olive when she loses the life she has taken for granted. We all sometimes think that the grass is greener, and we are all probably mistaken. The grass is usually only greener because there is more toil.

Olive finds humility in coming to terms with loss - the illness of loved ones; the moving away of her son. Most of us develop more empathy and humanity as a result of suffering. It’s a shame that something has to be lost in order for us to appreciate having had it, whether health or love, but that’s the way of the world. And Olive forges her own peace. In looking after her ill husband, she is the dedicated, doting wife that she never was when her husband was well. She learns to cope with her son’s choices while continuing to be bewildered about why he made them. Most of all, it’s a slap in the face to her to find out that he sought therapy because of his relationship with her. At one point, he says that he doesn’t know which was worse, her nagging at him, or turning on her husband, when she defended him.  She is deeply shamed by his memories of her being petty and uncaring. Because of course she cares.

Olive Again is the sequel, and continues Olive’s life after Henry. Olive realises that sometimes you have to compromise your views politically and tolerate different ones. Sometimes human tenderness is more important than agreeing with all someone’s views. Olive grows old, but she never loses her curiosity about life and her inner strength.

I read My Name is Lucy Barton after the two Olive books. I found it a little slight, even though there is much more to it than what is said. In fact, much of the book is left unsaid and only hinted at, such as when Lucy realises that someone else has had a similar experience to her, and it dawns on the reader what Lucy experienced in childhood.

The story is about a woman, mother of two children, being in hospital for many weeks, and her mother coming to visit her. We find out that the two have sometimes had a difficult relationship. And yet, I wished that the presence of her mother had been a dream, simply because it was so obvious that her mother loved her, and that, for me, made me lose some of my sympathy for Lucy. I think a childhood without material possessions but with loving parents, however inconsistent, is usually happier than one where a parent just cannot love a child, even if there has been disturbing behaviour from a parent. I think in a way, I was jealous of Lucy, with her mother calling her by an affectionate pet-name and sitting by her bedside for five days. We all bring our own experiences to a book.

Elizabeth Strout is one of those authors who writes in a deceptively simple way, like Anne Tyler, Sue Miller, Tessa Hadley, or Mary Lawson. Because it is not taxing to read her books, it’s tempting to think of them as lightweight. And yet in their quiet perceptive way, they leave you thinking. You become more aware of human foibles, of what matters in life. You realise that it chimes with you that a protagonist doesn’t care if she offends when she is speaking her mind, or that people bitch about her because she’s not docile and sweet, as women are supposed to be. It made this reader glad to have never been part of a tribe but always an onlooker, happy to recognise the good and bad in different groups and mingle with most. And it made me realise that we all make mistakes, and learning from them is part of growing wiser with age.