My Name Is Lucy Barton: A Novel

This is a story about the human condition. Of happiness. And sadness. Of love. And hate. This is a story of life--childhood, marriage, motherhood. It's all here in a very short book that will grab your heart and not let go. It is a simple story written in exquisite prose with a sophisticated message. This is as nearly perfect as a novel can ever be.Now living in New York City, Lucy Barton recalls one brief time in her life when she was hospitalized in Manhattan with a mysterious infection. While in her hospital bed, she recalls her impoverished childhood life in rural Amgash, Illinois and the people who influenced her as she grew to adulthood--from the school janitor to her abusive and dysfunctional parents to a college professor with whom she had an affair to her husband. It is so engrossing and meaningful. Much in this book will make you pause and think.This is the prequel to "Anything Is Possible," which is a series of stories about the people in Amgash with Lucy Barton as a thread throughout. Do read "My Name Is Lucy Barton" first to fully appreciate "Anything Is Possible."Aside to Elizabeth Strout: YOU are a ruthless writer!Aside to Everyone Else: Read the book, and you will know why this is a compliment.

I read and enjoyed Olive Kittredge and The Burgess Boys, so was quite excited about a new novel from this talented author. Unfortunately Lucy the character did not appeal to me and, by extension, neither did Lucy Barton the book. I suspect the style of prose in which she was delivered to me was the issue, not so much her life story or life choices or world views. In fact, by all accounts I suppose she should be lauded for coming from such humble beginnings and "making something of herself." And yet I felt detached and vaguely annoyed by her! The author seemed to employ a literary "technique" here, presumably intended to create an image of how a rural, uneducated (or at least unworldly), homespun girl would think, talk and act. It involved a lot of simple sentences, often repeated a second time but with a few words added on. Often those words were "is what I am trying to say." In the end it felt overworked and clichéd, and kind of made me want to shake Lucy (or more accurately, Strout) and say "how about throwing in a compound sentence now and again!" And it made Lucy feel flat and one-dimensional. It is by no means the worst book I have read. Just the worst book by Strout.

“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.”My Name Is Lucy Barton tells the story of a woman, named Lucy, as she recovers from an illness and tries to make sense of/peace with her complicated relationship with her mother. Lucy was raised in extreme poverty by parents who were not able to nurture and show her love in the manner that most children need. These circumstances have a fundamental and lasting impact on Lucy’s understanding of people, including herself, her choices, and the woman she is.The novel is written from Lucy’s point of view and comes across as a mix of a diary, vignettes of events, puzzles with half-revealed truths, but mostly, her own “one true story”. Strout uses language sparsely and with restraint. The novel is a short 191 pages that can be read quickly but should be savored slowly. The details are minimal and pared down to only the essentials. However, those pages resonate with a profusion of intense emotion and the vulnerability of the human condition. Loneliness, longing, pain, and inferiority are all felt strongly throughout the novel but so are resilience and love. At one point Lucy says “I feel I know a true sentence when I hear one now”. Strout filled this novel with true sentences. The novel summarizes itself nicely with the quotation “This is a story about love, … This is a story about a mother who loves her daughter. Imperfectly. Because we all love imperfectly.” I highly recommend this novel and suspect that Lucy will stay with you long after you have finished reading it.

There really isn't a story here. It is a stream of consciousness that points out to the reader how much one's past life influences one's present and future. Although it was well written, with some quite nice descriptive passages, truthfully, I could never get into it. I kept wondering when the story would be revealed, when it would start. There was no story. We never discover why she was in the hospital for so long, nor what happens with her mother, nor, really what she went through as a child. Strange book.

Ill in a New York hospital in the mid-1980s, without her husband or her two small daughters, writer Lucy Barton is surprised one day to find her mother has flown in from the Mid-West and is sitting by her bedside. The two haven't spoken in several years, but despite their long period of non-contact, they cautiously reconnect as Lucy drifts in out of consciousness. Lucy's mother's refusal to leave her daughter's bedside suggests maternal devotion - but Lucy's memories of her childhood paint a different picture, a picture of chaotic poverty and erratic, sometimes abusive parenting. Lucy is now a successful writer but back then 'We were oddities,' she says, and the loneliness that resulted is almost palpable: 'In the middle of the cornfields stood one tree, and its starkness was striking. For many years I thought that tree was my friend; it was my friend.'My Name Is Lucy Barton is a short, sparse novel and every word, every incident related is carefully chosen. There's a veil of ambiguity over the whole novel that made me constantly question what I was reading. It's clear that Lucy's mother, Lydia, remembers certain things very differently to the way Lucy does. Was Lucy's childhood really as bad as she believes it to have been, or - as someone who tells stories for a living - is she creating an embellished narrative to express some other, even deeper problem? There's an extra layer of uncertainty, too, as Lucy is looking back on her hospital stay and relating her conversations with her mother to us at a much later date, long after the two children she worries about while in hospital have grown up. We're not just relying on memories: we're relying on memories of memories. What, exactly, are the vague, undiagnosed complications she's suffering after her appendectomy - and is it just a coincidence that, having spent her childhood wary of a volatile, disturbed father, she is almost obsessively attached to the kind, calm and paternal doctor who oversees her care? Lucy may have left behind her traumatic past for New York, comfortable affluence and literary acclaim, but she'll never be able to escape her family's influence completely, and her relationship with her own daughters seems far from clear-cut.It's not often that a novel says so much in so few words. Strout's prose is beautifully economical and Lucy's recollections are shaped by her traumatic experiences, some of which she is clearly repressing, so what's left out is sometimes just as important as what's included. This is a thoughtful exploration of fractured, complicated family relationships and the ripple effect of childhood poverty and neglect through the generations.

I remember hearing praises for this book when it was first published but I did't read it at the time.I have so many books, some of which I buy just because the reviews are incredible, but I would lie if I say I read them all, they are on the shelf, waiting for me to take the first step.This book is different, I bought it because I went to the theatre a few months back to see the play with Laura Linney and I was so deeply touched by her performance!it made me want to re live the story, a story that I feel belongs to all of us, one way or another, about families, our relationship with our parents,our fears, our lives and how everything comes full circle at the end. Always.Elisabeth Strout doesn't write a story, she whispers it to our ears to remind us that it's alright to cry and be human and scared. One of the best.

This deeply personal novel, like Strout’s Pulitzer winner, “Olive Kitteridge”, is a composite rendering of perspectives that give us a multi-layered and nuanced presentation of the character, all the seeming contradictions and pieces that seem not to fit and yet all the more authentic and true of human personalities.While narrated solely through Lucy Barton’s voice, unlike the multiple voices in “OK”, Lucy’s voice is uncertain, prone to revision and wavering, as she looks back on her long hospital stay as a young wife and mother. Her mother’s visit triggers stark memories of her impoverished (and possibly abusive) childhood and informs her ambivalent relationship with her mother, as she sees both of them through others’ eyes.Written like a confessional or a memoir, the novel is made up of moments, side stories, recounted conversations, ponderings, stitched together. Lucy tells of her struggles as a fledgling writer, and her determination to write what is real, following the advice of a writer that “if you find yourself protecting anyone as you write this piece, remember this: You’re not doing it right”. What comes through in Lucy’s own narrative about her family is her inability at times to do just that as she reports on her parents’ neglect and abuse, but which is mingled with apology and excuses made in their behalf as she also tries to show the tender side to them, which gives her whole writing exercise a metafictive slant, revealing much about Lucy Barton herself. She reminds the reader at several points in the story that this is not a story about her marriage and yet it seeps through, over and over again, as it is part of her story and cannot be left out.A quietly moving novel, that draws the reader in to all the hopes, fears and dreams of a character in all her vulnerability and brokenness, as she finds a way to grab onto herself and define who she is.

Having read all the 'wow' reviews for this book, I have to say that I was quite underwhelmed. I wouldn't rave about it - it's OK. A touching story and one that we can relate to - an uneasy relationship with a mother, and times of reflection when in hospital. It's not a standout book for me, sorry.

I previously read "Anything is Possible" by this author and was annoyed that what was presented as a novel in the "blurb" was actually a series of short stories about (apparently) people who came from/lived in Amgash, the hometown of Lucy Barton. (There were plenty of other reasons I didn't enjoy it). However, I decided to give the author another chance by reading this "award winning" book.Again, I expected to find a novel, but I'm not even sure I would call this a book. Very brief - only 191 pages, large text, and lots of empty space. Some of the "chapters" were only one paragraph! The chapters consisted of a series of vignettes, almost conversations between the central character (who was herself an author; convenient) and her mother, or with the reader. I felt no connection with any of the characters in this series of vignettes. The only positive aspect (if you could call it that) was that I had several ah-ha moments, as I recognised names from the "Anything is Possible" chapters.I was really expecting this book to be the story of Lucy Barton, but it wasn't (at all). It was Lucy Barton having conversations with herself.I think Elizabeth Strout must be one of those Marmite authors who lots of people love but a substantial minority don't like at all. Count me in the latter. I won't be giving her another chance. Two strikes and you're out.