My Name Is Lucy Barton by Pulitzer Prize-winning Elizabeth
Strout is not a typical novel. I kept waiting for
the gimmick that would make this fit some genre or category I’d recognize, but
the gimmick never came. I guess I’d call it a novella, but it also feels a bit
like a journal. In any case, the book is a reminder that families can be
sources of epic, lifelong pain – or, really, that they are the sources of
everything.
The book starts when Lucy is in the hospital, suffering from
an infection. Her estranged mother shows up to be with her. I thought, “Mom’s a
ghost! This is going to be a ghost story!" Then I thought, “Lucy is really dead!
She’s on her way to heaven!” And then I thought, “Lucy’s really in a
psychiatric hospital!” None of these things is true. She is really in the
hospital with an infection, and her mom is really there.
The reader sits at Lucy’s bedside with her mother and gets
glimpses of the deep poverty and abuse and neglect that characterized Lucy’s
childhood. Strout only gives us little flashes of this past, however, and her
restraint somehow makes reading about Lucy’s experiences all the more
difficult.
The mother sits at the center of the back story, and it is devastating to watch Lucy --as an adult-- keep asking, “Do you
love me? Do you love me?” We also get to watch Lucy’s relationships with her
own daughters and her acknowledgment that she can (and does) cause THEM the
kind of pain they will carry forever, too.
The promotional material for this novel calls it a book
about mothers and daughters, but it is not the kind of book that will turn into
a Hallmark Channel movie of the week . Note that the cover of the book does not
feature flowers! The father in the story is also key, as are siblings and
partners and children. I think that ultimately this is a book that intends to
remind us that family permanently shapes us, and what happens to us in our families
becomes, as Lucy learns, our one and only story to tell.
You can find an interesting article about Strout here.
2 comments:
Sounds like it's the kind of book you admire and maybe like, but not one that you end up loving.
Lark, I definitely liked it! It really hit me emotionally. But I find that I generally prefer books with PLOT these days, and this is more....a meditation? A reflection? Anyway, I'm glad I read it.
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