I might not have heard about this book if it hadn't won, but the fact that it has been awarded the prize is not what makes me want to read it. There are actually a couple of reasons, one being this 3 out of 5 star review from a goodreads member:
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Eh.
Strout is such a good writer that when I heard she had a new one out I went to buy it without even knowing the title, let alone the plot. And while she is still a wonderful writer, she seems to have reduced herself (prematurely, I would hope) to the pre retirment plan of Maeve Binchy; the incredibly unpleasant world of the multiple narrative novel.
Her characters are sketched very well and her use of language pulls you in, but I really hate these snippets that aren't short stories, aren't novels - so what are they? Characters I meet briefly but in the context of a longer work so that the impact is all the more contrived, and one or two recurring people who become so tiresome and (Olive in particular) really unlikeable that you feel cheated for having this be the protagonist. It's very hard to feel attached to a book like this, and I would've minded less if it had been a book of short stories.
I gave it three stars because it is still very readable and maybe if you know going in what the deal is it is less bothersome. The other drawback though is that it's really depressing - there is a thread of suicide running throughout as well as an emphasis on loneliness, and Oliva can really really be hateful, and Strout's attempts to make her sympathtic come way too late in the work.
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So the protagonist sounds flawed, good. I hate when the main character isn't human enough. And I love Maeve Binchy books, so that seems fine.
And then, this quote from the book, also from the goodreads site:
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"What young people didn't know, she thought, lying down beside this man, his hand on her shoulder, her arm; oh, what young people did not know. They did not know that lumpy, aged, and wrinkled bodies were as needy as their own young, firm ones, that love was not to be tossed away carelessly . . . No, if love was available, one chose it, or didn't chose it. And if her platter had been full with the goodness of Henry and she had found it burdensome, had flicked it off crumbs at a time, it was because she had not know what one should know: that day after day was unconsciously squandered. . . . But here they were, and Olive pictured two slices of Swiss cheese pressed together, such holes they brought to this union--what pieces life took out of you."
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I think that's beautiful.