It’s a little bit ridiculous the number of major-event books happening right now. A memoir by Saeed Jones, the fantasy novel “Ninth House,” a new “Golden Compass” novel, a new Edna O’Brien, some kind of non-fiction from Lindy West: These are all (all!) Mark Your Calendar books.
I’ve more or less abandoned my efforts to stay current with trashy movies: “The Curse of La Llorona,” “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark,” “Abominable,” “Zombieland 2” are all just wishes I once had, now receding, receding, in my rearview mirror.
But new books? They are something I can try to keep up with even while jiggling a small baby on my lap.
Anyway, the book that will likely generate some of the loudest buzz is the book that arrives tomorrow: “Olive, Again,” by Elizabeth Strout, and here are the things worth knowing.
*Strout is extremely fond of Russian writers, and she also likes Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, and Alice Munro. One surprise: She is a fan of Stewart O’Nan, who lives in Pittsburgh and writes exquisite books without plots. O’Nan can build a chapter from an old lady’s reflections on which of her grandchildren have failed to send a post-Christmas “thank you” card. (I don’t really recommend a Stewart O’Nan book. Though the writing is smart and sometimes moving, it’s hard to stay focused when there actually isn’t a plot. Everyday life just isn’t a story. The challenge is to find a series of events that build to a climax--even while creating a sense of realism. Alice McDermott and Elizabeth Strout meet this challenge. O’Nan does not.)
*Strout’s mastery is evident in the first paragraph of “My Name Is Lucy Barton.” A woman is recalling some mysterious weeks she spent in a hospital in New York. At night, the Chrysler Building would appear (a “geometric brilliance of lights”), and as day returned, the building would gradually recede until you couldn’t easily pick it out. (This seems to be a metaphor for the way certain moods or memories can overtake us, and bother us, and then disappear for a while.) The narrator recalls staring through the window and seeing young women on their lunch break, tossing their hair, adjusting their scarves. And this seems like a miracle to her; she vows never to take for granted a New York lunch break, once she is back out on the sidewalk. (“All of life is amazing to me.”) Strout’s gift for noticing and listening, and her sense of appreciation for weirdness: All of that is available in the first paragraph of “Lucy Barton.”
*NPR has spilled some beans. We will find out about Olive’s second marriage in the new book. And she will have a near-death experience. And she will try to mediate in a fight between her two nurses (one Republican, one non-Republican and hailing from distant lands). I’m cautiously optimistic about Olive’s (literary) return.
I’ve more or less abandoned my efforts to stay current with trashy movies: “The Curse of La Llorona,” “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark,” “Abominable,” “Zombieland 2” are all just wishes I once had, now receding, receding, in my rearview mirror.
But new books? They are something I can try to keep up with even while jiggling a small baby on my lap.
Anyway, the book that will likely generate some of the loudest buzz is the book that arrives tomorrow: “Olive, Again,” by Elizabeth Strout, and here are the things worth knowing.
*Strout is extremely fond of Russian writers, and she also likes Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, and Alice Munro. One surprise: She is a fan of Stewart O’Nan, who lives in Pittsburgh and writes exquisite books without plots. O’Nan can build a chapter from an old lady’s reflections on which of her grandchildren have failed to send a post-Christmas “thank you” card. (I don’t really recommend a Stewart O’Nan book. Though the writing is smart and sometimes moving, it’s hard to stay focused when there actually isn’t a plot. Everyday life just isn’t a story. The challenge is to find a series of events that build to a climax--even while creating a sense of realism. Alice McDermott and Elizabeth Strout meet this challenge. O’Nan does not.)
*Strout’s mastery is evident in the first paragraph of “My Name Is Lucy Barton.” A woman is recalling some mysterious weeks she spent in a hospital in New York. At night, the Chrysler Building would appear (a “geometric brilliance of lights”), and as day returned, the building would gradually recede until you couldn’t easily pick it out. (This seems to be a metaphor for the way certain moods or memories can overtake us, and bother us, and then disappear for a while.) The narrator recalls staring through the window and seeing young women on their lunch break, tossing their hair, adjusting their scarves. And this seems like a miracle to her; she vows never to take for granted a New York lunch break, once she is back out on the sidewalk. (“All of life is amazing to me.”) Strout’s gift for noticing and listening, and her sense of appreciation for weirdness: All of that is available in the first paragraph of “Lucy Barton.”
*NPR has spilled some beans. We will find out about Olive’s second marriage in the new book. And she will have a near-death experience. And she will try to mediate in a fight between her two nurses (one Republican, one non-Republican and hailing from distant lands). I’m cautiously optimistic about Olive’s (literary) return.
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