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Enjoyable story of a mother-daughter and their often strained conversations, told in spare prose by the daughter who is a writer. I wanted more about Lucy at the end, but am pleased to see there's another volume [b:Oh William!|56294820|Oh William!|Elizabeth Strout|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1617988577l/56294820._SY75_.jpg|87609499]. ( )
A spare, melancholy book about the tension between feeling the impulse to precisely observe people and events and the elusive nature of memory; about how much you can feel for those whose lives briefly intersect with yours and whom you never see again, and the terrible push-pull between family members who find one another mutually incomprehensible. My Name is Lucy Barton is about bonds and isolation, explored as the eponymous narrator recounts both a lengthy stint she endured in hospital in New York in the '80s, and her impoverished and abusive childhood in '60s rural Illinois. Elizabeth Strout is very good at showing/not-showing the elisions, the sidlings up to and away from the painful things. As I read I found myself admiring Strout's restraint as a writer. However, although I liked the novel and the unresolved nature of the ending clearly signposts the further books that are to come in this series, I don't find myself pulled to continue reading about Lucy and her family—in a strange way, I think My Name is Lucy Barton told me everything I need to know about them. ( )
I was in Lucy Barton’s head from the very first page.
It’s rare when this happens – when the words of a book hypnotize you. The experience doesn’t feel like reading at all. It’s like falling into someone else’s consciousness...Strout’s skill in channelling Lucy’s voice is breathtaking, especially considering it’s the first time the bestselling author of Olive Kitteridge and The Burgess Boys has written a novel in the first person....This ability to love life, to notice small kindnesses, to remember the light in the sky and across the fields rather than the horrors of her childhood home, is Lucy’s salvation.
It is what we allow ourselves to see that helps us survive.
My Name Is Lucy Barton confirms Strout as a powerful storyteller immersed in the nuances of human relationships, weaving family tapestries with compassion, wisdom and insight. If she hadn’t already won the Pulitzer for Olive Kitteridge, this new novel would surely be a contender.
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For my friend Kathy Chamberlain
Første ord
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There was a time, and it was many years ago now, when I had to stay in a hospital for almost nine weeks.
Citater
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen VidenRedigér teksten, så den bliver dansk.
Whatever we call it, I think it's the lowest part of who we are, this need to find someone else to put down. (52%)
Sarah Payne, the day she told us to go to the page without judgement, reminded us that we never knew, and never would know, what it would be like to understand another person fully.
"You will have only one story," she had said. "You'll write your story many ways. Don't ever worry about story. You have only one." (77%)
I feel that people may not understand that my mother could never say the words I love you. I feel that people may not understand: It was all right.
Telling a lie and wasting food were always things to be punished for.
There are elements that determine paths taken, and we can seldom find them or point to them accurately, but I have sometimes thought how I would stay late at school, where it was warm, just to be warm.
I think he was too shy at first to hug me, so I hugged him, and imagined the warmth of his hand against the back of my head.
At times these days I think of the way the sun would set on the farmland around our small house in the autumn. A view of the horizon, the whole entire circle of it, if you turned, the sun setting behind you, the sky in front becoming pink and soft, then slightly blue again, as though it could not stop going on in its beauty, then the land closest to the setting sun would get dark, almost black against the orange line of horizon, but if you turn around, the land is still available to the eye with such softness, the few trees, the quiet fields of cover crops already turned, and the sky lingering, lingering, then finally dark. As though the soul can be quiet for those moments.
One can be ready to give up the children one always wanted, one can be ready to withstand remarks about one's past or one's clothes, but then -- a tiny remark and the soul deflates and says: "Oh." (16%)
Lonely was the first flavor I tasted in my life, and it was always there, hidden inside the crevices of my mouth, reminding me. (24%)
Once in a while I see a child crying with the deepest of desperation and I think it is one of the truest sounds a child can make. (34%)
There is this constant judgement in this world: How are we going to make sure we do not feel inferior to another? (44%)
This is a story about a mother who loves her daughter. Imperfectly. Because we all love imperfectly. (58%)
I kept thinking how the five of us had had a really unhealthy family, but I saw then too how our roots were twisted so tenaciously around another's hearts. (89%)
... I will grab myself and hurl onward through life, blind as a bat, but on I go! This is the ruthlessness, I think. (93%)
But I think I know so well the pain we children clutch to our chest, how it lasts our whole lifetime,with longing solarge you can't even weep. We hold it tight, we do, with each seizure of the beating heart. This is mine, this is mine, this is mine. (98%)
Sidste ord
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen VidenRedigér teksten, så den bliver dansk.
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