2009 Pulitzer Prizewinners Announced

[Deebs]

Winners


Has anyone read the fiction winner? Olive Kitteridge: A Novel in Stories by Elizabeth Strout

I guess she can't exactly be called a dark horse, but Strout did top quite the collection of heavyweights, including John Updike, Phillip Roth,Toni Morrison, and the favored-to-win Marilynne Robinson.

I'm happy for her. I wanna read her book now.

[Alex]

I haven't, and now am less likely to. I seem to take winning major literary awards as a reasonable indicator of a book I'm not going to read (not intentionally, but subconsciously).

[Deebs]

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:

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.

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:

"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."

I think that's beautiful.

[Kevy Baby]

Damn: I've been snubbed again

[Deebs]

I finally got 'round to checking out Olive Kitteridge from the library. It is just beautifully written, I loved it, and a very fast read. Definitely not a simple book, nor is it an easy thing to read -- I just mean that I felt compelled to keep reading quickly until I was through, then wished it had not ended. There is a thread of suicide weaving in and out of the stories, but I've never lost a loved one to suicide, so the references to it in the book were tolerable for me. I might not be taking such a broad view if I'd suffered suicidal loss. I do think that Strout is trying to make the reader uncomfortable.

I agree with a couple of things in the reader review from the Goodreads site I posted last month, particularly the comparison to Maeve Binchy, but I found this novel to be even more disturbing than any of Binchy's works. Binchy ventures into some seriously sad and heavy stuff, but her Irish-ness is a comfort itself and makes it all more palatable. As I am reading Binchy, in my head I usually hear the lilting brogue of Gabriel Byrne narrating, and how sad can that be?

Anne Tyler's highly drawn characters also come to mind here. The dialog of Strout's characters has that same ease so common in Anne Tyler books. The Accidental Tourist has delighted me each time I've read it. I also love Binchy's Tara Road. I have much tolerance for angst, or else I am a glutton for punishment. Either way, I usually find this stuff heady instead of sad. One afternoon I watched both The Constant Gardener and The Hours. Later that day I talked to my friend who said that sounded like "a depress fest", but I told him I had rather enjoyed both films.

Anyway. Olive Kitteridge is an extremely flawed protagonist. Uh-yup. Is she likable in spite of her flaws? Sometimes, yes, but most of the time, no. From the beginning Olive is hateful but by the end of the book, less so. She is still not someone with whom I would ever be comfortable. Other major characters in the book aggravate me too (Olive's son) but as if to balance that out, her husband is great and so lovable, I wish I could grow old with him.

One thing that bothered me was never understanding what made Olive such an unpleasant person. When someone behaves so badly I have to wonder why. As the book continued I kept expecting some sort of an explanation for her mean-spirited actions. None came.

But there are beautiful words throughout, which strike a chord, without hurting too much.


"She felt the way she had on the Greyhound bus that weekend Jace had told her about the blonde, when she kept thinking: This can't be my life. And then she thought that most of her life she had been thinking: This can't be my life."

[Tref]

Originally Posted by Alex

I haven't, and now am less likely to. I seem to take winning major literary awards as a reasonable indicator of a book I'm not going to read

If I had followed that rule I would not have read my beloved Jacqueline Susann.