When I first started reading Elizabeth Strout’s latest book, “Olive, Again“ I had the feeling it was going to be like a “not so good” sequel to “Olive Kitteridge“. I didn’t find myself liking or even caring about Jack, who we meet in the first chapter, and his problems.
But as I read, it all came back to me why I love Strout’s books.
Her characters are complex, her language is simple, and she imbues everyday life with small moments that light up in a brilliant spark and remind me of the compassion that human beings are uniquely capable of.
And eventually, like the woman who married Jack, I came to like him sometimes and not at others.