Being unhappy with the various genres in which I sought books I hoped to enjoy, and had not, I quizzed Amazon "books" for "best sellers, 2026," and found high on their list, "The Things we Never Say," and read that. The author, Elizabeth Strout likes to stitch loosely related short, short stories, together and call it a novel. The Pulitzer people apparently didn't object to her method and awarded her a prize in 2008 for "Olive Kitteridge," which I also read. She may well be the best novelist I've read in these modern times.
The novel I'm reading now is listed by Amazon as written in 1998, "Amy and Isabelle," and I recalled (from reading Strout's , Olive Again, " which inasmuch as it carries on the activities of Olive and others in her milieu beyond (in time) the events described in "Olive Kitteridge" (which won her a Pulitzer Prize) I had the impression that Strout, while no doubt grateful, did not think her Olive Kitteridge was as written worthy of that prize, and so wrote "Olive, again," which to me seemed more uniformly excellent and thereby provided the sequel that was, in her opinion (it seems to me in mine) worthy of a Pulitzer. What a bold thing to do, if that is what happened! Very impressive even if she had some other motive.
While not seeking it, I'm nevertheless aware of matters relating in various ways to me and events in the novels I'm reading, and this was occurring intensely as I approached the end of Olive Again. Olive, is an old woman, 86 years old, recovering from a heart attack and the installation of a stint. She was on her porch and noticed a cigarette butt. "who could have put that there?" She didn't smoke nor did she know anyone who did (this didn't turn out to be true). In leaning over to look at it more closely, she fell. This is something I have done. In following my doctor's recommendations I have sought places on my floor where I can put my feet up for an hour (I've only managed 30 minutes so far). Getting back upright has been difficult for me. But I differ from Olive in that I've prepared as much as possible for this difficulty, that of being on a floor or the ground (which has happened by accident a couple of times) and needing to get back upright. I work out with weights and do exercises that I'm hoping will make this process easier. I'll rather say here that it has made the process "possible" for me, but as I'm lying there on the floor, like Olive did on her porch, I wasn't (as she wasn't) initially sure that I would be able to get back upright on my own. And I never had my phone (as Olive did not have hers) when I am in this condition.
Olive did eventually make it back upright, but she struggled far longer than I have ever had to do so, and she worried about it later to her son and agreed to go into an assisted living facility. That is not something I would ever be willing to do, and given my background (working out regularly almost every day), I don't feel I should ever need to, and yet the aging process is inexorable, and perhaps, I might one day, when I am much nearer 100, be considered in Olive's condition.
I am taking what I'm reading very personally. I recalled vividly struggling, the previous day and the day before that, getting my legs up on something, to suit my doctor's instructions, and then afterwards, getting back upright. I was clearly under the influence of Elizabeth Strout and noticed that I was coming to the end of this novel, with Olive recovering poorly (she was dead for awhile before the doctors brought her back to life) and seemed soon to once again be dead, this next time permanently,
I stopped and wondered, inasmuch as I was immersed in this novel, what effect it would have on me when Olive died. At 91, I am older than she is in the novel and could imagine dying while reading about her. I considered writing a general email entitled "In Case I die before you read this" or something like that, but I didn't.
In the novel I'm reading now, the very first written or at least published by Elizabeth Strout (according to Amazon), Amy and Isabelle, Isabelle was taken advantage of by an older man and had Amy out of wedlock at age 16, and they have been on their own ever since. Since Strout makes repeated use of her favorite characters, and as a consequence I have already encountered Isabelle. Olive makes friends with her in the Assisted Living facility. Isabelle describes her daughter Amy as being a successful expert in some form of surgery, if I recall with a superb reputation. So this, Strout's first novel, will (probably) provide the story of how this and all related matters relating to Amy and Isabelle come about. Surely this will be a good thing, but Isabelle in the Assisted living facility with Olive, is not a happy lady, and does not seem to have a close relationship with her daughter.
While some matters in Strout seem relevant to my circumstances, others do not. I have not been as deeply affected by my parents as her characters have been. Nor have I felt as strongly about them. It's as though in my case I have a bumbling swarm of facts, incidents, and conclusions, and don't feel a need to judge my mother, father, grandmother, etc, beyond them. This “bee swarm” seems conclusive to me. And in regard to my sister who was raised to be antagonistic toward me (by our mother), I didn't retain similar feelings toward her (who was more affected by the opinions of our mother than I was) and sought her out on Colorado and communicated with her by mail for several years, putting a 20 dollar bill in each letter I sent her because she struggled financially. Then she fell on a wet floor in a super market, was horribly wounded, won a law suit, told me not to put any more $20 bills in my letters, and died. I can't imagine what Elizabeth Strout would do with her. My mother would be, it seems to me, the character she would like the best; which by implication suggests that if I were to write a novel like hers, my mother ought to be the subject. But standing along side Strout, thinking about my mother, I don't feel the emotions I suspect Strout would think necessary to the writing of such a novel (assuming I would be able to write such a novel, which I seriously doubt).
But I do occasionally write poetry; which is what inspired me to begin this email. A new teacher in 16-year-old Amy’s class is asking each member of the class what they expect to be doing ten years from then. Amy said, “a teacher.” The professor doubted that. He said that is probably what her mother wanted her to be (which was true), but he suspect “a poet or an actress’‘ was more accurate. Amy hated him for being so perceptive.
And Amy does have an interest in poetry, I haven’t yet read anything about her interest in acting; but how can such interests be entertained if she ends up a world-famous surgeon – if that is what happens. I probably don’t have that right. I continue to read, but such reading is interfered with by shooting pains from the edema which I have thus far not managed to alleviate.
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