4+
“All the love in the world couldn’t prevent the awful truth: You passed on who you were.”
Mother and daughter relationships can be difficult during the teen years even in the best of circumstances. These relationships have increased difficulty when there is no father and/or no honesty. Enter sixteen-year-old Amy and her insecure mother, Isabelle. Two likable characters, two good people, but two lonely souls unable to meaningfully communicate with each other, show compassion or love. Yet, I could feel their love for each other, that love they were unable to express.
Elizabeth Strout skillfully builds the tension between this mother and daughter. The flood waters were coming, the dam was ready to break, I could feel it, hear the crash. (My mind is on flooding due to the recent wrath of Ian.) This same tension could be felt by the inhabitants of this town of Shirley Falls as they endured day after day of stifling heat rising to what seemed to be the boiling point.
I felt Strout WAS Amy, WAS Isabelle or at least in their heads. They were so real, so alive. Amy, so sheltered, exposed to the world, to sex, to desire and deceit, pulling away from her mother. Isabelle, so frightened by life, pulling back. Their relationship with each other and with the people of this New England town was so poignant, heart-wrenching, and often amusing, although I often wanted to scream at Isabelle, ignite some emotional warmth and affection. She was flawed but so pathetically human. Can anyone do this better than Strout?
I loved this debut novel as I have loved the five more recent Strout novels. There was just one thing that prevented me from giving this 5 stars. I don’t want to be specific and possibly ruin it for those who have yet to savor it. Something that happened early on in the novel and reappeared near the end seemed forced, unnecessary, and bothersome to me. It by no means diminished my enjoyment, it just rang a bell of improbability in my head. That bell never rang in subsequent Strout books.
“A terrible thing to wait for a letter; each day formed around the morning of hopefulness and the evening’s fog of disappointment. It was a wound, the disappointment, inflicted every afternoon at the same time.”
"You took the kindness offered, let it seep as far in as it could go, and the remaining dark crevices you carried around with you, knowing that over time they may change into something almost bearable.”