LUCY BARTON

I just finished reading My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout – yesterday, which had only taken me about three hours ( I am not a skimmer, but a careful reader). Second book for this month – July.

I think My Name is Lucy Barton is not a novel  –  that was short, but rather a short story that was long. I was like wish-there-was-more-story-to-tell, but Elizabeth Strout creates a unified story – about love: about the complicated, complex love between a mother-daughter relationship. Sparse, grows on one as you read, but it is perfect for Lucy, who struggles to speak the unspeakable, both aloud and in her writing.

Lonely was the first flavor I had tasted in my life, and it was always there, hidden inside the crevices of my mouth, reminding me.

Lucy carries a deep loneliness throughout life. A loneliness that stems from a childhood in a home where poverty was so fundamental that it overshadowed both love and goodness.

Can you call such a family dysfunctional?

The extent to which one can give their children a safe and loving childhood – full of joy – when the threat of hunger and homelessness are banging on the door every night?

To what extent affect our childhood, our choices later in life?

Brilliant storytelling. Lucy delivers a personal and refreshing narration. The language is beautiful. The story is infused with suggestive and aptly remarks about life and the relationship between humans themselves.

I have mixed emotions in recommending this book. I don’t know.