Hospitalised for nine weeks following complications post-appendicectomy, married mother of two Lucy Barton is surprised to wake and find her mother sitting by her bed. Surprised because Lucy has been estranged from her parents for many years, and in any case her mother is not renowned for the sympathetic or caring gesture. For five days the two re-explore and re-kindle their mother-daughter relationship before Lucy's mother abruptly departs at a crucial moment never to be seen or heard of again.
It is no spoiler to reveal this plot line because My Name is Lucy Barton is one of those tantalising novels where the future is openly revealed before being given any context or reason. In fact ultimately a reason may or may not be given, leaving the reader to forage for clues and hints which I think I found but of course won't reveal.
And it all raised so many interesting questions as I read..
What are the roots of inferiority...
Is it deeply embedded in childhood deprivation or can it be overcome...
Is self-esteem and confidence set in tablets of stone early in life or can it be found later on...
By her own admission Lucy might be an unreliable narrator...
'This must be the way most of us manoeuvre through the world, half knowing, half not, visited by memories that can't possibly be true....so much of life seems speculation.''
She is hospitalized and unwell (though it would seem to be an illness of unknown origin) perhaps making her observations and perceptions of her childhood all the more distorted, whilst the presence of her mother and their conversations shed new light for both on long-held certainties. As a reader I hovered around the edge of the family secrets half-expecting and hoping for a clear disclosure given that Elizabeth Strout reveals so much about the future.
Did I pick up on one (or two)...well I couldn't possibly say.
But it all made me think about the intricately woven book, the phrase bandied around and often hard to explain. It is as if Elizabeth Strout has started weaving from a different side with My Name is Lucy Barton because suddenly the book turns in on itself as Lucy attends a writing class where the tutor gives an appraisal of the book I am reading.
It all took me somewhere different and unexpected...
'This is a story about a mother who loves her daughter. Imperfectly. Because we all love imperfectly. But if you find yourself protecting anyone as you write this piece, remember this : You are not doing it right.'
Amongst the paeans of praise always littered around a proof copy is one from the Literary Review concerning Elizabeth Strout's ability to home in on the dropped stitch of the family fabric. It is a wonderful and apt analogy...some unravelling required but with it comes the ability to pick up the stitch, repair the hole and knit on. Lucy's life knits on with some shaping and decreasing and increasing of stitches. The chapters are measured and short, the book flows and having been sent this copy by a friend in with a Christmas card I started reading it at the kitchen table and was instantly engrossed.
It's what I want from a novel these days...draw me in and I will stay; sadly piles of books seem to be falling at this first hurdle these days.
I am streets behind with my reading of the novels of Elizabeth Strout having loved Abide With Me and for some reason dipping out on Amy and Isabelle, Olive Kitteridge and more recently The Burgess Boys (which several people have recommended highly) so I am looking forward to a bit of a reading retrospective.
Meanwhile any more Elizabeth Strout fans out there...
And what about the book that intentionally telegraphs what is ahead...do they work for you...
And do you persevere with a book if those first twenty pages don't pull you in... how long do you give a book to impress.
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