The Things We Never Say

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout fell flat for me. The folksy writing style moved the plot along—I read the book in ten days—but the story didn’t go deep enough. Everything felt surface-level, like the author was throwing out a dusting of flour without ever getting into the hard work of kneading the dough. I wanted to understand and empathize with the main character, Artie Dam, but I was baffled by his choice to remain surrounded by the other characters in his life who resembled cardboard cutouts. It brings to mind the Henry David Thoreau quote about “most men leading lives of quiet desperation.” I love that quote but that doesn’t mean I find it interesting to read books about those men. Also, Thoreau’s words cut right to the quick. This is the meandering way Strout executes what I think is a similar concept.

“So blind we humans are—so blind. To each other and to ourselves, moving through life as though through shadows, putting out a hand in the dark and thinking we have touched someone. And maybe we have, as Artie did with Rhonda Lazarre that day. But mostly we travel through life unsighted, grasping only the smallest details of one another’s selves, including our own. Thinking all the while that we can see.”

I’ve tried to describe my feelings about Strout’s writing before, and this time I think I finally got the message. I’m pretty sure I won’t be reading any more of her novels, even though they receive so much acclaim. I’ll end with one more example of what exasperates me about the way she writes. This next excerpt is essentially a giant run-on sentence that ultimately says very little.

“She had asked Evie once if she could come over, and Evie had said yes, and then Anne showed up regularly, just sitting quietly with Artie, and she and Artie began to talk with each other.”

It leaves me feeling hollow when I want to be deeply touched.

The Penelopiad

Years ago, I tried to read Circe by Madeline Miller and just couldn’t get into it. Too many characters…with weird names I couldn't pronounce in my head. I’m not a huge fan of mythology anyways, but as a teacher I tried to be more knowledgeable about the subject. This year with the 3-hour blockbuster Hollywood movie The Odyssey making waves, interest in all things Greek mythology is heating up. Before I commit to watching the film, I wanted to brush up on the story. My classroom copy of the graphic novel version I bought to entice reluctant readers, has been missing in action since I retired, so I downloaded The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood.

In ten days, I completed this short tongue-in-cheek account from the perspective of Penelope, wife of Odysseus. It did the trick and immersed me into the mercilessness of the olden days, especially for women who had less free will while still being held to high standards for virtuous behavior. Where Circe is thick and dense, this book is light and frothy. A flank steak versus a cappuccino. It reintroduced me to the major plot points of The Odyssey in a fast-moving and amusing way. I like Atwood's sly sense of humor, although I never did read The Handmaid's Tale or stream the television series. I can't remember Blind Assassin, but a few years ago I really enjoyed reading Atwood's trilogy of science fiction books, even though that's not usually my go-to genre. 

A couple of highlights from The Penelopiad for me are Penelope's descriptions of her relationships with her husband and her son, Telemachus. Regarding Odysseus, she says, "The two of us were—by our own admission—proficient and shameless liars of long standing. It's a wonder either of us believed a word the other said. But we did. Or so we told each other." This is what she has to say about her son, being left as she was a single mother during her husband's years-long adventures. "But I did not appreciate the barrage of surly monosyllables and resentful glances I was getting from my own son." And then later to drive the point home. "Boys with their first beards can be a thorough pain in the neck." 

The chapters of the book alternate between those filled with Penelope's observations and those consisting of lyrical poems describing the escapades of the ill-fated maids at her service. Here's a bit of an explanation from the author.

"The Chorus of Maids is a tribute to the use of such choruses in Greek drama. The convention of burlesquing the main action was present in the satyr plays performed before serious dramas." 

I just love a book that is entertaining and educational!

Theo of Golden

I'm a little conflicted about being an outlier on the bandwagon of praise for the feel-good book Theo of Golden by Allen Levi. Everyone has been raving about it, including so many people I respect, and the 5-star reviews are off the charts. I do know a couple of people, like me who had a lukewarm response to all the hype, and part of me wonders what's wrong with us. I wanted very badly to enjoy this story but can't deny that my overall impression is 'meh'. Mostly bored, I plowed through with dogged determination to get to the point of it all. Sadly, once I did, I was disappointed.

A look at the reviews on Goodreads points to a philosophical divide between the lovers and haters of the novel. Haters begrudged the preachy tone; lovers were almost Evangelical in their accolades. This podcast captures the heart of the matter. 

The Great Novel That Almost Wasn't

Before I dive into my own personal critique, here are a few quotes from one-star reviews that validated my thinking:

# 1—"a slog to get through" [SLOG being the operative word.]

# 2 —". . . I found it tedious and just kept pushing through the chapters, frequently skimming the flowery, extraneous sections of which there were many." [Refer to # 1 and just keep reading, slog away, there must be a giant pay-off.]

# 3—"did NOT add up to the hype" [There was a lot of HYPE.]

Speaking of the hype and given the current political climate in the U.S., I can't help being suspect of the forces involved in getting this initially self-published book into the hands of a publisher. I wasn't necessarily offended by the preachiness of the story as some readers admitted they were. I'm a good Catholic girl who believes in the tenets of Christianity, if not so much the trappings of organized religion, and authors are allowed to have a point of view, after all. We still have freedom of expression, I think, even in Trump's America. Equally, I celebrate the free will we all enjoy to avoid reading material we find unpleasant. My real complaint about Theo revolves more around the quality of the writing and the manner in which it was hallowed after publication for its epic Christian message. I can't really defend that statement without giving too much of the ending away, but I'm going to try to explain myself from a literary standpoint. This is very subjective, I know, but bear with me.

I found the writing style pompous and dripping with vibes of old-man self-importance. Not sure this originated from the title character or the author, but no matter, it didn't resonate with me. The clumsy organization would have benefited from a good editor (as does most writing in my opinion). This is why. The entire moral-compass-reckoning of the narrative doesn't arrive until page 368 of 387! And, it unfolds completely in the form of a very l.o.n.g, syrupy letter written by a character who I won't reveal because I have no desire to spoil the ending for fans of the book.

In addition, I found the story's climax to be quite jarring and overwrought. In keeping with the religious theme, dare I say, apocalyptic? It seemed very out of place when the heretofore lumbering plot suddenly took a nosedive into a hell-scape of mayhem and violence. For me, it was akin to sitting on a porch swing sipping lemonade for a very long period of time on a lazy summer afternoon when out of the blue a fiery piece of Elon Musk's space junk punctuates the sky like a thunderbolt of damnation, leaving me shellshocked, not in a good way. 

That's the best way I can describe my reaction to Theo of Golden.

Revolutionary Mothers

Someday, hopefully by the end of 2026 as I continue working to overcome my “mother wound,” I’ll finish reading Revolutionary Mothers: Women in the Struggle for America’s Independence by Carol Berkin. The book survived the purge-fest of my bookshelves in 2024 because of its historical subject matter — just like I survived my childhood struggle for freedom from the tyranny of my mother.  

The Book of Flaco

 

In June I went by myself to an author talk at the Sturgis Library. How had I never encountered any of David Gessner's work until now when his writing style is right up my alley? Gessner is a memoirist with a connection to Cape Cod who writes about nature and environmentalism. The workshop itself was short but very worthwhile. It was structured differently than others I had previously attended, and I feel like I learned a lot listening to the author. Titcomb's was there peddling their wares, so naturally, I couldn't leave without purchasing two books. I justified The Book of Flaco because I had it inscribed by the author to gift to my owl-loving friend Elaine, whose birthday is in July. The other book I couldn’t resist was Return of the Osprey: A Season of Flight and Wonder. Gessner began his presentation with breath-taking close-up videography of ospreys hunting and nesting.

My wily plan for Flaco was to “gently read” it before gifting it, the problem being, I’m a slow reader and only got about halfway (Chapter 6) before my friend’s birthday. Another problem surfaced when I remembered I can’t even think about Flaco without getting emotional. In real time while I was still teaching, I shared Flaco's story with my students. For sure, his tale doesn’t have a happy ending, but Gessner’s perspective managed to fill me with inspiration.

When I started my “careful reading” on June 10, the sobbing began immediately. Working hard to ensure the tears avoided the text, I picked it up again the next day and managed to plow ahead, gaining marginal control over the weeping. Then, the book sat, waiting for an appropriate moment for me to immerse myself in more blubbering. Meantime, two other books by Gessner and one by his wife expired from my digital Kindle shelf. I managed to read to page 60 of 363 in A Traveler’s Guide to the End of the World.

This summer there is a documentary about Flaco playing at the Cape Cinema. Wild Inside follows the owl’s hero’s journey as he escapes from his enclosure at the Central Park Zoo through his winning the hearts of birders and others during his year-long period of freedom. I can’t even watch the movie trailer without dissolving into ugly-crying!

I don’t know if I’ll ever return to The Book of Flaco — I know how it ends after all — but I am grateful to have made it as far as I did into Gessner’s exploration Flaco's  connection with humankind. I will always hold a place in my heart for his story. One New Yorker who documented Flaco’s brief adventures, Ruben Giron, sums it up best.

“I believe Flaco enjoyed his freedom, and he lived it in the way that an owl will enjoy living. He used his intelligence to find places to hide, places to hunt, and he did that, and he’s a hero to me. I mean, it’s what we’re all trying to do. We’re all living our life, trying to find that place of joy in life. Some of us are in cages. Absolutely the biggest cage is our own mind, but certainly being under the precepts of society and culture, there is an entrapment that occurs. We believe that we’re supposed to be a particular way, but Flaco, he could only be Flaco, and he was enjoying that freedom.”

There’s just something about birds and freedom that never fails to tug at my heartstrings.