Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (2008. Random House. ISBN978-0-8129-7183-5)
I am not an award winning author. None of my books has won a Northeastern Minnesota Book Award, a Minnesota Book Award, or achieved any other sort of recognition from the critics. I live and die to hear, first hand, compliments about my writing from folks who stop by to chat with me at writers festivals or, during the summer, in my little E-Z UP tent at art and craft fairs. That’s pretty much the only positive feedback I receive. So for me to critique the work of someone who’s won a Pulitzer, well, that’s pretty ballsy, to use a West Duluth term. But, in addition to being a semi-famous regional writer, I’m also a reader. And because I read, I have this incessant need to tell you all what I’ve read and what I think of other writers’ work. So here’s the easy part: I was engaged by (and liked) Olive Kitteridge.
Now for the bad news. You see, I am a linear guy. I like stories that have beginnings and endings and while I am willing to work hard at reading a novel or short story or novella, the caveat is I want to be rewarded for my effort. Any book that makes me work my ass off to understand its theme, its plot, its characters, well that book better damn well have one hell of a payoff at the end. Ms. Strout’s book, despite its slender size, is not an easy read. Weaving together a dozen or so related characters, each with their own story, but each also forming part of the story cycle featuring Oliver Kitteridge, is a hefty task for any writer. And there’s no doubt, after enjoying Ms. Strout’s finely crafted prose, that she’s a gifted writer. Maybe one who should one day win a Pulitzer Prize. Just not for this book.
See, I think that sometimes, the folks that hand out literary awards simply want to prove to us that they are smart and we, the reading public, aren’t. That’s my take on how this book went from an interesting read, one that book clubs might like to pick up, read, and then discuss, to a whirlwind of success and America’s highest literary honor. I seriously don’t think it’s because this was the best book of 2008. I’ll be honest: I don’t even know what other books were competing against Olive Kitteridge for the Pulitzer in 2008. I just know that there must have been a novel or short story collection in the mix that I would have voted for before I picked this book as the best of the lot.
I readily concede that Olive is an interesting protagonist. But you know what? Maybe it’s a guy thing but I didn’t find Olive appealing (and I’m not talking about her physical description): I found her to be mean spirited, sort of cranky, and at times, downright nasty. For Pete’s sake, she hit her kid when he was little: not spanked, but hit. And she really wasn’t all that loving and kind to her husband, Henry, the town pharmacist, and, by Olive’s own admission, a saint. There are other memorable folks who pop up in this book: Angie, the piano player; Daisy, the matinee lover, and a whole host of others. But the main problem with giving us a parade of minimalist insights into these folks’ lives is this: We want to know more and, at every turn (with the exception of Olive whose story comes to some sort of conclusion) the other story threads are left hanging like unwanted Irish pennants. (If you don’t get the reference, you weren’t in boot camp.) Like I said, it’s a matter of style. I tend to like stories that have endings and to my dismay, many of the tales begun in this book simply peter out. And that’s disappointing to a guy who worked really, really hard to keep the multifaceted cast of this book in perspective until the last page was turned.
4 stars out of 5.
