“Olive Kitteridge,” her Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of linked stories, gives life to a woman both fierce and thwarted, hampered in her passions at once by rage and a sense of propriety.
If we reach a sophisticated urban consensus on how to speak, how to dress, how to live, then who will know what lies beneath the surface? Who will know what any one of us might really mean by words like “home,” “childhood” or “love”?Įlizabeth Strout is a writer bracingly unafraid of silences, her vision of the world northern, Protestant and flinty. This is nowhere more true than in New York City, where, surrounded by millions, each person supposedly stands upon his or her own merits.
Each of us is Gatsby, or can be, with the potential to be reinvented and obliterate the past. One of this nation’s most abiding myths is that social origins don’t matter.
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