Elizabeth Strout’s Tell Me Everything brings together 23 characters from her previous novels, including her signature characters Olive Kitteridge, Lucy Barton and Bob Burgess. A literary reunion of sorts, Strout’s fifth instalment ties together the histories and personalities of these characters offering closure for some while leaving the door open for more. It’s a larger narrative, making it a must-read for long-time fans of Lucy Barton, though each book stands alone.
Just as I finished reading it, I saw the stage production of Strout’s first “Lucy” book, My Name Is Lucy Barton, at Theatre on the Square in Sandton. Julie-Anne McDowell’s wondrous performance brings Lucy to deeply human life as she reconnects with her mother; the tension between them lurks just below the surface as Lucy knits together the story of her escape from a lonely, troubled childhood in rural Illinois.
“I think I know so well the pain we children clutch to our chests, how it lasts our whole lifetime, with longings so large 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,” Lucy says.
It’s an older, wiser and — dare I say it — more content Lucy Barton whom we meet in Tell Me Everything. Set in mid-coastal Maine, where Strout grew up, the book explores the interconnected lives of people in the small fictional towns of Crosby, Shirley Falls and West Annett. These tight-knit communities, where everyone knows each other’s business, drive the plot and provide the framework for Strout’s exploration of human connection.
At its heart is the bond between Lucy and Bob Burgess. Now back in Maine, Lucy finds herself growing close to Bob, a semi-retired lawyer defending a local man accused of murder. On their riverside walks, where Bob — unbeknown to his wife — can smoke just one cigarette — they have candid conversations as they reflect on regrets and missed opportunities.
Olive Kitteridge, now 90 and living in a retirement community, reaches out to Lucy: “The library always had a long wait list for Lucy’s books, so Olive had ordered them from the bookstore instead, and she read through them, and something made her think that this Lucy might like — or could possibly use — the story Olive had to tell. So on this particular autumn day, the yellow leaves of the tree seen through Olive’s large windowed back doorway were quivering to the ground as she waited for Lucy Barton to show up.”
They meet regularly to share stories of the “unrecorded lives” of people they’ve known. Strout has long been fascinated by the notion that every person carries a story, often untold, within them.
“So, Bob, here’s the thing: Olive and I have been telling each other all these stories of unrecorded lives, but what do they mean?” Lucy asks him. “I keep thinking these days about all these people, and people we don’t even know, and their lives are unrecorded. But what does anyone’s life mean?’ She added: “Please don’t laugh.”
For Strout, storytelling is a tool for connection; it’s how she allows her characters to give new life to forgotten or overlooked experiences. Olive, in particular, is adamant that stories should have a point, yet Lucy’s view point offers a counterbalance, suggesting that the act of telling a story, as one perceives it, is in itself the point.
The novel itself becomes a meditation on the unknowability of others. As Lucy says, “Nobody can go onto the crevices of another’s mind, even the person can’t go into the crevices, and we live — all of us — as though we can.” That’s the paradox at the heart of Strout’s work: while stories bring people closer, parts of human experience remain elusive, even to those who share the most intimate moments.
The simplicity, emotional clarity and straightforward language make her characters feel real and relatable.
“Lucy stood up and pulled on her coat. ‘Those are my stories,’ she said, and then bent down to put her boots back on. ‘But you’re right. They are stories of loneliness and love.’ Lucy stepped into the tiny kitchen for a moment and returned with a paper towel and she bent down and soaked up the drops of water on the floor left from her boots. Then she picked up her bag and said, ‘And the small connections we make in this world if we are lucky.’”
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