Other novelists must berate themselves when they see what Strout pulls off without any tacky pyrotechnics. Strout doesn’t dress language up in a tuxedo when a wool sweater will suffice. Her exclamation points (there are many) are the little stabs of intensity our emotions cycle through each day. Where a simple phrase will do, it does: “I was so happy.” “ Oh he is just so lonely!” “What a strange thing life is.” Lucy Barton in particular, the narrator - again - of Strout’s new novel, “Oh William!,” announces her reactions with the vocabulary of, well, a regular person. Even in her novels’ darkest moments, there’s a soft, periwinkle feeling. There is a quietude to her prose - even with scowly, persnickety characters like Olive Kitteridge - that exudes calm devotion. I imagine Elizabeth Strout scrawling out her novels longhand in some serene room in coastal Maine, a party of white pines standing tall outside her window. If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from, whose fees support independent bookstores.
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