"Mrs. Bridge," by Evan S. Connell

I enjoyed Elizabeth Strout's prize-winning "Olive Kitteridge" so thoroughly (see my blog entry for 6/21/09) that I decided to read a contrasting study of one woman's life in suburban America as it existed a generation before Olive was born.

"Mrs. Bridge," a classic work by Evan S. Connell, is similar to "Olive Kitteridge" in several ways. Strout's book consists of a series of related short stories; Connell's novel consists of a string of 2-3 page vignettes. Both books illuminate the inner lives of long-married women who live comfortably within the confines of American suburbia. Neither book builds to a dramatic climax; both stories are told with a quiet understatement that matches the tenor of their main characters' daily domestic lives.

That being said, the two women in these novels could not be more different; their temperaments occupy opposite ends of the personality spectrum. Olive suspects her husband is a ninny, and she's not afraid to tell him so. Mrs. Bridge, on the other hand, adores her husband; he is the very anchor of her existence. She trustingly sits beside him in the dining room of a Kansas City country club while a tornado approaches within blocks of the building because he announces that the tornado will skirt the club, and he wants to finish his steak. Olive isn't afraid to confront her only child with a litany of his faults; her son's love for her is marred by a constant fear of being bullied. Mrs. Bridge, on the other hand, is slightly afraid of her own three children. She is deeply unnerved at her oldest daughter's tendency to wear trashy outfits and sneak off with boys at night, but she also suspects that her daughter knows something about life that she doesn't. She elliptically confronts her son about his dalliance with an "experienced girl" from the other side of the tracks by informing him that a very nice girl from the country club has been inquiring about him lately. Even her most compliant child, Caroline, eventually "one-up's" Mrs. Bridge by informing her, "I'll never let my husband boss me around like Daddy bosses you."

Mrs. Bridge isn't a complete angel; she harbors unsavory attitudes about race and class that emerge subtly during the course of the book. She is upset when her new laundry woman plumps into the front passenger seat of the car instead of taking a seat in the back, and she becomes ill at ease when her daughter's childhood friendship with a black girl persists into puberty. Ever the lady, however, Mrs. Bridge avoids direct confrontation and resolves these conflicts with veiled hints and subterfuge.

It is tempting to conclude that the difference between Olive and Mrs. Bridge is a product of their respective times; "Olive Kitteridge" is a contemporary tale, and "Mrs. Bridge" takes place in the 20's and 30's. This is true to a degree, but it doesn't explain why most of us know a "Mrs. Bridge" today (you know this woman, she's the one who always gets stuck laundering the table linens after the church bake sale). Conversely, the suffrage movement was probably populated by an abundance of "Olives" who weren't going to take it any more. Both types of women bring value to their insular world. Mrs. Bridge purchases a subscription to "Doberman" magazine from her impoverished art teacher because she can't say no; Olive Kitteridge shakes a student into action by informing him "If you're scared of your hunger, you'll just be one more ninny like everyone else." Olive's frequent displays of anger create a barrier to the psychological intimacy she craves from her family. Ironically, Mrs. Bridge's inability to express anger performs the same isolating function. Each woman's loneliness bears a direct relationship to her ultimate "unknowableness."

If you enjoy a gentle character study that draws you in with subtlety and surprising depth, you'll like "Mrs. Bridge." Additional suggestion: read "Revolutionary Road" and "The Ice Storm" for a slice of domestic dystopia in the 50's and the 70's, respectively.

Two Horror Tales: "The Strain" by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan, and "The Little Stranger" by Sarah Waters

I don't usually read horror fiction, but I recently finished two tales of terror that kept me turning pages into the wee hours of the night, despite my usual urge to flip off the light any time after my evening bath (I'll do well at a rest home some day).

Guillermo del Toro's "The Strain," the first volume of a planned vampire trilogy, is pretty much what you would expect from del Toro. If you saw "Pan's Labyrinth," written and directed by del Toro in 2006, you know that Guillermo knows how to create a monster; I was scrambling away from del Toro's grotesque "eyeball ghoul" in my dreams for weeks after seeing that movie. Del Toro's vampires aren't of the romantic Abercrombie and Fitch ilk that dominates today's popular culture. His creatures have blood red eyes with huge black pupils, atrophying body parts (yes, there in particular), and extendable tongue-like stingers that can fly out and tap your carotid artery at six paces. Add the fact that these fellows smell like a mixture of sour dirt and moldy cheese, and romance is not an option.

Del Toro takes some classic tropes from the vampire canon (earth-filled coffins, the utility of silver, sunlight, and mirrors, etc.) and adds a scientific angle that infuses time-ticking exigency to the situation. Apparently, these vampires are victims of a parasite-born virus that is capable of multiplying exponentially and overtaking the entire globe if left unchecked. It's up to a grandfatherly survivor of Hitler's death camps and a recently fired scientist from the Center of Disease Control to save the world. Del Toro's artful mix of Bram Stoker and Michael Crichton is spiced with graphic descriptions of grisly battles that beg for cinematic treatment. The cliffhanger ending will leave you a) expecting a movie within the year, and b) eagerly awaiting the next installment despite your normally lofty literary tastes.

Although Sarah Waters' "The Little Stranger" also falls into the horror genre, it couldn't be more different that "The Strain." Del Toro's novel is set in the skyscrapers and subterranean subway networks of contemporary New York City; "The Little Stranger" is set in the bucolic countryside of 1947 Warwickshire, England, and centers upon strange happenings at Hundreds Hall, a decaying manor that is consuming the pocketbook and possibly the sanity of its aristocratic occupants.

Oddly, I found "The Little Stranger" to be the more unsettling of the two books. Del Toro isn't coy about the nature of his monsters. The demons in his book are all too real; they may cling to the shadows and dark corners of the night, but when they spring out for the kill, they are all hiss, stink, and tangible body impact. Waters chooses to be more elliptical about the exact nature of the goings on at Hundreds Hall, and that is the chilling charm at the heart of her book's success.

"The Little Stranger" is narrated by Dr. Farraday, a country doctor whose initial visit to the Ayres family at Hundreds Hall is prompted by the sudden illness of their sole maid, Betty. Dr. Farraday had visited the Hall once before as a young boy, when his working class mother managed to talk a servant into showing young Farraday the Hall's interior rooms while a busy civic event took place on the home's grounds. The older Farraday is shocked at the Hall's state of decay; the peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings bear only a slight resemblance to the grand palace he viewed with a child's astonished eyes. The Ayres family has suffered with time, too. Mr. Ayres is deceased, his wife is now a frail and aging beauty, and the Ayres' only son, Roderick, has been mentally and physically crippled by his service in WWII. Only daughter Caroline, a thick-ankled spinster who is fond of wearing shapeless woolen shifts and sturdy shoes, seems to emit a sense of animal vitality. The Ayres's only other child, Susan, died of diphtheria when she was very young.

The physical clues to the deadly mystery haunting Hundreds Hall are maddeningly ambiguous. A key thrown into the snow, smudged burn marks that slowly proliferate on the library's walls and ceiling, childlike scribbles that are discovered on woodwork and behind furniture, the sound of whistles and tinkling bells emanating from the Hall's ancient servant-summons system -- all of these can be dismissed by a bit of agile rationalization, and Dr. Farraday does his best to calm the growing fears of his upper crust clientele.

The true suspense in Waters' novel is mental, in the best gothic tradition of "The Turn of the Screw." The psychological tension within and between characters is at once subtle and overpowering. Dr. Farraday, an "up-from-his-bootstraps" local success story, is simultaneously charmed with the outdated eloquence of the Ayres family and revolted at his lapdog attempts to worm his way into their gentrified circle. (In one of the book's telling passages, Farraday looks at his image in a mirror before he visits the Hall and worries whether he looks like a balding grocer.) His initial tepid appraisal of Caroline gradually grows into a physical obsession; the tiny line of sweat that always appears on her upper lip after walking the family dog slowly transforms from turnoff to turn on. Caroline's animal vitality runs hot and cold with Farraday; she alternately urges him on and pushes him away with fear and disgust. Mrs. Ayres admits to Farraday that she has always been indifferent to Roderick and Carolyn; the only child she ever loved with maternal passion was Susan. Roderick feels that the house itself is a monster that can never be given enough repair and upkeep; the burden of his family's legacy is slowly consuming him.

Is it possible that repressed sexual desires and bottled-up mental torment can ultimately call forth "a little stranger" who wreaks havoc on its victims? If so, what is the nature of this "little stranger?" Is it based in the mind, or in reality, or somewhere in between? It is Sarah Waters' artful working of the "in between" that makes her book so memorable. Waters' refusal to spell out the answer forces each reader to reach his or her own conclusion based upon their own internal stranger. Del Toro's vampires may cause your heart to pound wildly as they pounce on their next victim, but when the dust settles, that's the end of it. Sarah Waters' novel will prompt a little tickle on the back of your neck that will refuse to go away. An evil that is never decisively identified is difficult to decisively ignore. Don't forget your night light

If You Listen To One Audio Book This Summer . . . A Review of Kathryn Stockett's "The Help"

When is the last time that you listened to an audio book that was so splendid you couldn't wait to share it with everyone you care about? "The Help," by Kathryn Stockett, offers that kind of experience. Stockett's novel, set in the Deep South of Jackson, Mississippi during the racially charged years of the 60's, is currently a darling of book clubs everywhere. Stockett has written her story in three different first-person voices, and this narrative format, when paired with the consummate skill of three of the best reader/actors you'll ever hear, makes the unabridged CD version of her book a perfect candidate for summer listening.

The three main characters in the book are unforgettable. Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan is a recent graduate of Ol' Miss who returns home to her parents' cotton "plantation" and discovers that a passion for journalism and her tendency to speak truth to power can be as socially lethal as her much-lamented six-foot frame. Aibileen is a soft-spoken black woman who has raised 16 white children; she loves her newest charge, Mae Mobley, but dreads the day when "Baby Girl" reaches the age (8 or 9) at which all of Aibileen's other white children have "turned" and broken her heart by following in their parents' bigoted footsteps. Minny is a feisty stout fireplug of a housemaid with heavenly cooking skills and a sassy mouth that usually gets her fired within a month; one of her few successful tenures occurs when a deaf employer can't hear her talk back.


Together, these three women embark on a brave project that threatens their respective futures and ultimately, their lives. Throw in a side story about a love-struck husband named Johnny Foote and his new bride, Miss Celia (a culturally challenged girl from Sugarditch who prunes the rose bushes in what Minnie describes as hoochie-pink pedal pushers); add a bossy queen bee socialite named Miss Hilly Holbrook to the mix (you'll want to scratch her eyes out), and you have the makings of a rousing drama that will prompt you to ration your listening sessions so you don't end the book a moment sooner than you have to.

Do yourself a favor and plunk down on a chaise lounge with this audio book and a tall glass of Southern sweet tea. Prepare to work up an appetite (Minnie's fresh peach pie, three-tiered caramel cake, and buttermilk fried chicken will have your taste buds screaming), laugh out loud, cry a little, and make three of the best friends you'll ever have the privilege of meeting. When you're done, you'll want to buy a copy of the recording and give it to your sister, who will give it to her daughter, who will give it to her best friend, who will give it to her mother. It's that good.

Ties that Bind: A Review of "The Believers" by Zoe Heller

One of the unanticipated joys of viewing a harrowing movie filled with bizarre behavior and dysfunctional characters is the clean wave of normalcy that descends upon the moviegoer as he/she trudges up the murky walkway toward the sweet light of day. "I may have my moments," the viewer muses, "but that woman was CRAZY."

I experienced a similar feeling when I completed the last page of Zoe Heller's "The Believers." I approached the rest of the day with light-footed elation, deliciously free of the self-imposed angst borne by each member of Heller's beleaguered NYC family, the Litvinoffs.

The patriarch of Heller's fictional family is Joel Litvinoff, a self-described radical leftist attorney and civil rights worker who attained his national celebrity through tireless work on numerous high-profile legal defense cases. Heller reveals the least about Joel, who suffers a major stroke in the first pages of the book and remains in a coma thereafter, but that is probably to his advantage, since the more you know about this Manhattan family, the less you like them.

Joel's battles against the establishment may have originally been fueled by altruistic ardor, but Heller hints that Joel has become enamored with his own celebrity in recent years. He needs constant public attention to energize his leftwing passions and enhance his cult-like status, a status that in turn facilitates his favorite hobby: he's a womanizer. One would like to feel sorry for his wife, Audrey, but she has quite a few flaws of her own. It's highly probable that she married Joel to escape the dismal fate endured by her English parents, who live in a tatty Chertsey apartment that smells of boiled cabbage and cat pee. No longer the attractive and saucy feminista of her youth, Audrey has become abrasive, foul-mouthed, and bitter in middle age. Her sole friend, Jean, endures verbal attacks from Audrey that would incite bitch-slaps from anyone less saintly.

The Litvinoff children are no sweethearts, either. The oldest child, Karla, is an overweight social worker who is maddeningly weak-spined and complacent in the face of outrageous verbal abuse from Audrey and rude inattention from her husband. She may as well print "Kick Me" on her behind. Karla's sister, Rosa, is a stiff, self-righteous do-gooder who has turned to helping urban girls in Harlem after becoming disenchanted with Castro's Cuba, where she lived for a time. As Rosa's job at "Girlpower" slowly sours (in truth, she doesn't like the girls, not even one), she begins to flirt with Orthodox Judaism, a move that is sure to inflame Audrey, a militant atheist. The youngest Litvinoff, an adoptee named Lenny, is a drug-using lay-about who somehow manages to wheedle money and favors from Audrey in inverse relation to his bad behavior; the more outrageous his transgressions, the more Audrey gives him, a fact that rankles his sisters and consigns him to the status of permanent manchild.

"The Believers" can be read as a scathing social satire, but Heller's underlying themes are nothing to smirk at. Each character is trapped inside a forced persona that he or she can't seem to shed. Joel has become so dependent upon national notoriety that he is determined to chase it to the point of exhaustion (and stroke). Audrey has played the role of adoring wife and quirky iconoclast for so long that she is totally at a loss as to how to define herself when Joel's transgressions come to light. Karla is boxed into a social work job and a miserable marriage because Joel and Audrey convinced her at an early age that she was "the nurturer" in the family. Rosa has modeled her adult life after her father, only to discover that his ideology has left her adrift and longing for something more. Lenny has allowed himself to sink into a destructive co-dependency with his mother that threatens to kill him unless he cuts and runs altogether.

Each family member seeks an external anchor, a belief system that will reveal his or her raison d'etre once it is adopted and internalized. Heller subtly explores whether such a quest is an effective strategy or a harmful barrier to true self realization. Each Litvinoff resolves his or her existential crisis differently, and in refusing to reveal her bias one way or another, Heller forces her readers to address the issue for themselves. "The Believers" is a tragicomic and thought-provoking book that will leave you feeling relieved that you're not headed to the Litvinoff household for dinner any time soon.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao:" A Literary Trifecta

In "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," Junot Diaz artfully weaves three distinct narrative threads into a prize-winning novel that offers three books for the price of one.

The novel's main character, a massively overweight, nerdy Dominican American whose romantic passion for women is simultaneously humorous and heartbreaking, is one of the most original characters to appear in fiction in recent years. The reader first meets Oscar at the tender (and relatively thin) age of seven. Oscar's prepubescent love life is blossoming; he's romancing two girls at once, and his reputation as a schoolyard Romeo has spread throughout the Dominican barrio of his New Jersey town. His bliss is cut short, however, when the girls refuse to share his affection and force him to choose between them. The victor promptly dumps him for another suitor, and Oscar's love life begins a downward spiral that will persist into a dateless and despondent adulthood.

Depression prompts Oscar to overeat and lose himself in comic books, fantasy novels, and marathon rounds of Dungeons and Dragons. Despite the repeated efforts of his sister Lola and his best friend Yunior to educate Oscar about the proper way to seduce the opposite sex, he stubbornly persists with obsessive personal habits and un-hip hobbies that guarantee his lovelorn isolation. College finds Oscar holed up in his dorm room, chubbier than ever, writing what he hopes will be the next "Lord of the Rings" and fantasizing about his latest crush. Readers will find themselves fuming at Oscar's hapless inertia while also hoping that something wonderful will finally fall his way. What can life offer a bounteously romantic soul wrapped in an unappealing body? What should it offer? What do we owe to ourselves and others regarding such issues? These deep questions, together with Diaz's skillful and original development of Oscar's character, could carry the book without the aid of any additional material.

Nevertheless, "Oscar Wao" offers the reader a second story line that is equally engaging. Many readers may find Diaz's exposition of the complex relationship between Oscar's mother, Beli, and his sister, Lola, to be the most gripping element of the book. Beli's violent verbal and physical attacks on her own daughter are maddeningly inexplicable until Diaz gradually informs the reader about Beli's past life in Dominica, a tragic tale that could fill a book of its own. Beli and her daughter are oil and water in some respects (Beli's romantic entanglements have bordered on the fatally obsessive, while Lola's approach to "love" is about as cool and calculating as it gets), but it is their wild tenacity of spirit that locks them into combat; each despises the other for a stubborn ferocity that she refuses to recognize in herself. Diaz explores this mother/daughter relationship expertly, guiding the reader through Beli and Lola's tangled web of love, fear, resentment, and hope with a story that could stand alone on its own merits.

That being said, Diaz offers the reader yet a third narrative lens through which to enjoy the book. "Oscar Wao" offers an expansive, multi-generational history of the Dominican Republic in general and an account of the diabolical 30-year reign of President/dictator Rafael Trujillo Molina in particular. From the time Trujillo rose to power in 1930 until he was assassinated in 1961, he ruled the country with a ruthless cruelty that was feared throughout the Caribbean. Oscar and his family are fictional characters, but Trujillo was real, and Diaz doesn't pull any punches as he depicts the ruinous effects of Trujillo's rule upon the Dominican people. Trujillo's tentacles reach out to adversely affect every member of Oscar's family, touching everyone from Oscar's scholarly Grandfather Abelard to Oscar himself, who finds himself in a deadly confrontation with Trujillo's legacy long after the man himself is dead.

This book, a well-deserving winner of the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, is an excellent choice for your to-read list in 2009, whether you're interested in exploring Dominican history, mother/daughter relationships, or the imaginative, love-addled brain of a Star Wars fan named Oscar.

Coffee Talk . . . . .

It's four o'clock in the afternoon, you're desperate for a break from work, and you've got coffee on your mind. Do you order up a whipped mocha or something short, black, and bitter? I experienced a bit of both options last week when I read Elinor Lipman's "The Family Man" (iced vanilla frappe) and Denis Johnson's "Nobody Move" (thick and black in a paper cup) in rapid succession.

The books read like night and day, but they both depend upon the same literary element -- dialogue -- for their success. I love a book that lets me eavesdrop on private conversations, particularly when they are unusually artful (Jane Austen, Henry James, Edith Wharton -- why don't people craft their social exchanges like that any more?), witty, or eye-opening (check out "The Reluctant Fundamentalist" by Mohsin Hamid).

Elinor Lipman's "The Family Man," set in contemporary Manhattan, consists almost entirely of dialogue. Wordy characters abound in this fast-paced domestic farce: Henry Archer, a successful, recently retired gay attorney; Denise, his histrionic ex-wife from the distant past; Todd, a middle aged sales clerk with his eye on Henry; Thalia, an aspiring actress who seeks to reunite with her stepfather Henry after twenty years of estrangement -- all of these characters are bubbling over with something to say, and the result is a light yet gratifying verbal soufflé reminiscent of Grant/Hepburn screwball comedies of the 30's and 40's (for those of you under 35, think Hugh Grant/Renee Zellweiger in "Bridget Jones' Diary).

Denise's Xanax-induced "eulogy" of her deceased husband (third one and counting) is almost as entertaining as her verbal overtures to her new soul mate, Albert Einstein, a greyhound rescued from the racing circuit and formerly named "Kill Bill." Todd's "coming out" interchange with his house-coated Brooklynese mother left me rolling on the floor. The story is drenched with New York references both real (Zabar's, the Number 7 Line, a haute restaurant named "Per Se") and imagined that reinforce the urbane nature of the wordplay. Lipman's novel may fall on the light side of the literary scale, but a literary carmel macchiato can go down deliciously on a long summer afternoon, especially when it is intelligently crafted.

Denis Johnson's "Nobody Move," set in the depressed burgs of Northern California, also relies upon clever dialogue for its success, but the mood of the book is a polar departure from Lipman's light hearted romp. All of Johnson's characters are losers of one sort or another: Jimmy Luntz, a middle-aged nobody with a serious gambling debt; Juarez, Jimmy's creditor, a small-time crook who has assumed a false name and accent to conceal the fact that he is actually from the Middle East; Gambol, Juarez's lumbering "enforcer" who is sent to collect Jimmy's debt; and no less than two femme fatales: Anita Desilvera, a petite brunette with a drinking problem who joins Jimmy's fugitive run with a few plans of her own, and Mary, a "hefty blonde" who applies her nursing skills (and more) to an injured and morose Gambol in hopes of gaining some personal dividends in the bargain.

The book is an abrupt departure from Johnson's previous prize-winning book, "Tree of Smoke," and one gets the feeling that he is having fun with it. If Lipman's novel reads like "Bringing Up Baby," Johnson's book evokes the mood of "Double Indemnity." It's an homage to Chandler, Spillane, and James M. Cain. The dialogue is terse, cynical, and darkly humorous: "You're drunk." "Not yet, but I like how you think." The light banter that ricochets between characters in a volley of poker-faced one-liners is eerily at odds with the extremely violent chain of events, but Johnson works this internal contradiction to the book's advantage, a la "Pulp Fiction." Much of Johnson's dialogue echoes that of Richard Price ("Lush Life," "Clockers"), the current king of gritty urban dialogue, who also happens to be a script writer ("The Wire."). No wonder "Nobody Move" almost begs to be made into a movie.

Some readers who loved "Tree of Smoke" might consider "Nobody Move" to be a turn in the wrong direction for Denis Johnson, but if you enjoy noir fiction packed with one-liners that prompt a guilty smile, this book is for you (to be read with a strong cup of warmed over coffee in hand, of course.)

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

When is the last time that you willingly spent an entire week with someone you didn't like, even though you were free to escape at any moment without the slightest penalty? Never? Neither had I, until I picked up Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer prize winning book, "Olive Kitteridge," last month, and discovered that the longer I lingered with the book's abrasive main character, the less I wanted to leave her house.

Caustic, judgmental, and "honest" to a fault, Olive Kitteridge resembles the scary aunt that children run away from at family reunions -- the one who informs you that your legs are too fat to wear shorts and that you have Grandpa's nose. Even her body is a force of nature. Olive is unusually tall, and not in a willowy way. She slices through the small Maine town of Crosby like a sturdy ship of state, leaving battered feelings in her wake like so much hurricane flotsam.

Olive Kitteridge is a woman to be reckoned with, a fact that is not lost on her long suffering husband, Henry. He's a bespectacled, tentative man who loves his job as a pharmacist and awakens each morning with the belief that the world is a good place filled with good people. His workplace is a refuge where he can satisfy his hunger to make everyone happy. No one can make Olive happy, however, and the hairs on the back of Henry's neck tingle each evening as he drives home in anticipation of Olive's inevitable irritation with him or with Christopher, their only child.

Olive may be easy to dislike, but she's also fascinating. She delivers one-liners that are rude and yet strangely satisfying to read; they're the kind of remarks that we've all secretly wished we could say at some time. Olive: "How I hate a grown woman who says 'the little girls' room.' Is she drunk?" Further example: When Christopher leaves Olive alone with his recent (and many-times divorced) bride, Olive looks about and casually asks, "Where is your newest husband?" Her thoughts aren't something to be proud of, but we've all had them ("More gratifying, however, was the fact that . . . the story of Bill and Bunny's offspring was worse than their own.")

Olive isn't all bad, however, and the author is brilliant in her ability to elicit compassion from the reader as the complexity of Olive's personality is gradually developed. Olive's years with her son are filled with impatience and discord, but she is devastated and profoundly lonely when he chooses to move to California; "Pain, like a pinecone unfolding, seemed to blossom beneath her breastbone." She observes her future daughter-in-law gently stroke the hair of a young flower girl at Christopher's wedding, and acknowledges to herself that something is deeply wrong with her own inability to express physical affection. She is mortified when, after an evening dinner, she realizes that Christopher and Ann never informed her that she had food on her blouse, a "courtesy" extended to an aging old woman. Olive's former students (she was a junior high math teacher) remember her with respect and admiration. "Don't be scared of your hunger," she told one of them, "If you're scared of your hunger, you'll just be one more ninny like everyone else." These moments help the reader to empathize with, if not admire, Olive. In doing so, the reader expands his/her ability to realize that the complex mystery of others is never fully knowable.

This book is technically a series of short stories that are all connected in some way to Olive, but it reads more like a novel. In addition to being a character-driven tour de force, it is also a wise commentary on domestic relations, the ways of small towns, and the human condition in general. Take a trip to Crosby, Maine and spend the week with Olive. I think you'll be glad you did.