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 for me. 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 work 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.