Olive Kitteridge [book review]

On the surface, the novel Olive Kitteridge is confusing.  The short-story format is not what most of us are used to discovering when we read a novel.  Usually, a novel will provide its reader with a narrative that, for the most part, travels through time and the relationships of cause/effect in chronological order.  Olive Kitteridge is different.  It drops the reader into each new section without much reference to time, reminding me of Michael J. Fox’s character, Marty McFly, suddenly being transported via DeLorean in the Back to the Future movies.  The people watching the movie get to see little snippets of each characters life, but each journey through time is a new perspective of the same life, viewed through the eyes of Marty McFly.

So it is with Olive Kitteridge.  Each chapter is actually a new short story that focuses on a new central character and shows a different perspective of the character named (obviously): Olive Kitteridge.  All of the characters are flawed in some way; a different flaw appears for each perspective.  At the root of the story narrative, there is not much hope to be found.  Personally, I felt a lot of dread while I read this book: dread over the negative feelings, dread over what may happen to the characters, dread over the interpersonal conflicts and inner struggles.  I also felt ashamed for these characters, that they are not very skilled in social settings and that they seem very self-unaware.  And I was unhappy with the cuss words.  But, Olive Kitteridge herself is fascinating, the author’s word choice is engaging, and the mechanics of the novel is genius.

When I found myself feeling discouraged in the narrative, I began to ponder the other books I’ve read that may have had a similar structure.  While it may seem like the author is a pioneer in structuring her novel this way, there are others.  The one that stands out in my mind is James Joyce’s Dubliners (1914).  While his novel also made me feel some inner turmoil, I realized that it was an overall observation about the moral compass of the poorer class in Dublin, Ireland.  And, I believe, Elizabeth Strout has succeeded in presenting a similarly-styled observation about the working class in America with Olive Kitteridge – those who work hard, struggle with social settings, may lack social graces, and (possibly even) have emotional disorders that have gone undiagnosed.  It’s not a statement about whether these elements in general society are right or wrong; it’s simply a series of short stories that observe and tell the reader what’s taking place in the small town of Crosby, Maine.  There’s a lot going on in this place, just like every other small town (and big city) of the world.  The author is subtly showing off her literary education and I am willing to comment that it’s well-done.

The character named Olive Kitteridge is mesmerizing.  I think it’s because she does exactly what a lot of us wish we could do while remaining socially approachable and morally stable.  She criticizes her husband, she drops in on people unexpectedly, she overstays her welcome, she lies down on someone else’s bed while at a wedding, and she vandalizes things that aren’t hers… I could go on but I don’t want to ruin the story for anyone.  Essentially, it comes down to Olive Kitteridge being a great reading choice because the reader knows that real people don’t usually get away with carrying out their inner urges… and Olive Kitteridge’s feelings and thought processes are always exactly the same as what we sane people hear in our heads all day, every day.  What’s the difference between her and us?  Only that we aren’t characters in a book, and (hopefully) that we have a conscience.

Rating: Well-written, somber nod to James Joyce.

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