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. Even the not-so-subtle references to the Trump presidency are weak. The cardboard characters don’t have much of substance to say about the state of American politics other than just murmurings of displeasure.

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 want to read books about those men. Also, Thoreau’s words cut right to the quick, whereas 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 work before, and this time I think I finally got the message: Don't read any more of her novels, no matter how much acclaim they receive. I’ll end with one more example of what exasperates me about her writing style and why it's not for me. 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 three-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, having been left a single mother during her husband's years-long absence. "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.  

Love & Other Monsters

It took me a long time (two weeks) to get into Love & Other Monsters by Emily Franklin, but once I did I was spellbound. My experience was similar with The Lioness of Boston, another book written by Franklin whose unique writing style reflects the old-fashioned flourish of the time periods about which she writes. It takes a while for me to warm up to the language and manners of these bygone eras, even when the subject matter is so captivating. Lioness chronicles the fascinating and unconventional life of Isabella Stewart Gardner, known for assembling a vast collection of art at a museum she founded in Boston. Franklin's novel thrusts the reader into the larger-than-life world of old money, arts patrons, and high society.

Likewise in this book, Franklin plunges us into a maelstrom of dark Victorian culture where the intimate trappings of polite society intersect with new advances in medicine and Gothic horror. I had no idea what a complete dumpster fire Mary Shelley’s life was when my obsession with Frankenstein began. I learned that much has been documented about the complicated lives of Mary and her contemporaries.

Love & Other Monsters examines the complex dynamics in play in 1816 when Frankenstein was conceived in Geneva, Switzerland during what became known as The Year Without Summer. The story is told from the perspective of Mary’s half-sister Claire Clairmont who is oft-forgotten and eliminated from the narrative completely, despite the fact that she herself left behind copious letters and journals of her long life.

On the famous occasion in 1816, Mary Shelley, her fiancé Percy Shelley, their young son William, and Claire were summering next-door to celebrity poet Lord Byron and his personal physician, John Polidori. Shenanigans ensued between and amongst these strong personalities in the rented mansion Villa Diodati. 

It was here that Byron sought refuge from the relentless press seeking gossip about his romantic pursuits. Claire, who had initiated an affair with Byron, actually arranged for her and the Shelleys to be present. Polidori was secretly providing details of the comings and goings of the group, while Claire’s relationships with Mary and Percy and Polidori were unorthodox, to say the least. Co-dependence, competition, and controversy defined all of the connections that fateful summer. Vast research and analysis of historical documents are the hallmarks of Franklin's work in historical fiction. Using material from primary sources such as letters, calendars, journals, and manuscripts, she weaves together the interactions between this illustrious cast of characters, spotlighting the inner thoughts of Claire as she navigates the heartbreak and drama of the times. 

Forthcoming and introspective, Claire described herself as “silly and serious, insistent and hungry.” These traits are on display in this observation she makes about her dalliance with Byron. “All of this made me wish I had stayed home—far safer to be there with the fantasy of the man rather than in close proximity to the real one, smelling poorly.” Here she describes more flatteringly her infatuation with the poet, who was ten years her senior.

"That he was handsome was not opinion, only fact. Documented time and again from his youth to present, twenty-eight years of age and still youthful of face. He was a slippery sort of beauty, and that very transient quality only urged his appeal."

Tragically, the love affair between Claire and Byron, though short and unhappy, produced a daughter who died at the age of five. Byron's own life was cut short at age 36 from complications of his participation in the Greek War for Independence. Claire was the only one present that summer to live to old-age. She died at 80 years old in Florence, Italy, having led a quiet but reflective life of travel, working as a governess and housekeeper. 

In the Epilogue of Love & Other Monsters, Claire ponders her relationship with her famous sister. 

"What is my story and what is Mary's ? Impossible to know whom I would have been without her. And she can never know whom she might've been without me, without the ghosts that clung to her from birth. Is my lack of singularity my great tragedy or great Fortune? Does a woman have to be extraordinary to be remembered?"

Here are some of my thoughts after being immersed in the tangled web of alliances in Love & Other Monsters. Certainly the fame Mary Shelley enjoyed for the success of Frankenstein could not have been worth the heartache, scandal, grief, and controversy she experienced in life! Can the human quest for fame and recognition be a dangerous thing? Or were other factors at play in the lives of these people?

On this last point, I wholeheartedly agree with Claire on the power of the written expression. 

"I write the truth down, and then it does not have power over me. I am free."