Because time always seems to be short and the stack of books on my bedside table is tall, I very rarely read a book slowly. But by the time the first chapter of Olive Kitteredge came to an end, I resolved to take a long time reading it.
Maybe you’ve heard about Elizabeth Strout’s book. It won the Pulitzer Prize, for good reason. It’s a masterfully written novel about Olive and the people in the Maine town where she lives. Each chapter stands alone as a short story, but with each story read, thin threads of plot and character loosely weave the events and townspeople together. In some stories, Olive is the main character. In a few she’s present in a supporting role. In some, she appears on the perifery, waving at someone else or quickly passing by.
Though Olive is not the center of each story, she is the center of the book. In her, Strout has skillfully developed one of the most memorable characters in modern fiction. Olive is heart wrenchingly human and familiar. A retired seventh grade math teacher, her flaws are obvious. She bullies her long-suffering husband, over-manages her adult son’s life, gives her opinion too freely, and sews her own clothes with great passion but little taste. She also has a wonderful sense of humor, is a wise judge of character, and sometimes reaches out to struggling people with unexpected and selfless compassion.
Somehow, Strout’s writing managed to put me inside Olive’s skin and allowed me to view her from a distance. Simultaneously, I justified the motives driving her thoughts and actions (maybe because they were so similar to my own rationalizations) while wanting to head her off at the pass before she did another stupid thing.
By the end of the first chapter, Olive was my enemy, my respected teaching colleague, my nosey neighbor, my mother-in-law, my rescuer and my friend. Because I didn’t want to say good-bye to her, I read the book slowly, savoring each new twist and facet of Olive’s complex personality, shaking my head and chuckling as she struggled through self-inflicted dilemma after dilemma.
I didn’t want the book to end, and with so many loose ends and unanswered questions remaining at the end of the last chapter, my hope is that Strout has a sequel in mind. I hope she writes it soon.
I miss Olive Kitteridge.
