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By Elizabeth Strout

WINNER OF THE PULITZER PRIZE • THE EMMY AWARD–WINNING HBO MINISERIES STARRING FRANCES MCDORMAND, RICHARD JENKINS, AND invoice MURRAY

In a voice extra strong and compassionate than ever prior to, New York Times bestselling writer Elizabeth Strout binds jointly 13 wealthy, luminous narratives right into a publication with the heft of a singular, during the presence of 1 larger-than-life, unforgettable personality: Olive Kitteridge.

on the fringe of the continent, Crosby, Maine, could seem like nowhere, yet visible via this wonderful writer’s eyes, it’s in essence the entire international, and the lives which are lived there are choked with all the grand human drama–desire, depression, jealousy, wish, and love.

from time to time stern, at different instances sufferer, from time to time perceptive, at different instances in unhappy denial, Olive Kitteridge, a retired schoolteacher, deplores the adjustments in her little city and on the planet at huge, yet she doesn’t continually realize the alterations in these round her: a living room musician haunted via a earlier romance: a former scholar who has misplaced the need to reside: Olive’s personal grownup baby, who feels tyrannized via her irrational sensitivities; and Henry, who reveals his loyalty to his marriage either a blessing and a curse.

because the townspeople grapple with their difficulties, light and dire, Olive is dropped at a deeper knowing of herself and her life–sometimes painfully, yet consistently with ruthless honesty. Olive Kitteridge bargains profound insights into the human condition–its conflicts, its tragedies and joys, and the persistence it requires.

NAMED the best BOOK OF THE yr BY
People • united states this present day • The Atlantic • The Washington publish booklet global • Seattle Post-Intelligencer • leisure Weekly • The Christian technological know-how video display • San Francisco Chronicle • Salon • San Antonio Express-News • Chicago Tribune • The Wall road Journal
 
“Perceptive, deeply empathetic . . . Olive is the axis round which those 13 advanced, relentlessly human narratives spin themselves into Elizabeth Strout’s unforgettable novel in stories.”—O: The Oprah journal
 
“Fiction enthusiasts, take into account this identify: Olive Kitteridge. . . . You’ll always remember her. . . . [Elizabeth Strout] constructs her tales with wealthy irony and moments of actual shock and extreme emotion. . . . excellent, strong stuff.”—USA Today
 
“Funny, depraved and remorseful, Mrs. Kitteridge is a compelling lifestyles strength, a red-blooded unique. whilst she’s now not onstage, we glance ahead to her go back. The booklet is a page-turner due to her.”San Francisco Chronicle
 
Olive Kitteridge nonetheless lingers in reminiscence like a valuable photograph.”—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
 
“Rarely does a narrative assortment pack one of these gutsy emotional punch.”—Entertainment Weekly
 
“Strout animates the normal with staggering strength. . . . [She] makes us event not just the terrors of swap but additionally the terrifying wish that modify can carry: she plunges us into those churning waters and we arise gasping for air.”—The New Yorker

From the Hardcover edition.

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He lives in California and skis within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. ” The boy checked out her. His eyes have been faded blue, and his eyelashes have been virtually colorless. The whites of his eyes had spidery pink veins. He stored observing Olive with no altering his hangdog expression. “Just please close up,” he eventually stated. Olive sat in her automobile within the a long way again of the hospital’s car parking zone, the place she may perhaps see the blue door of the emergency room, yet there has been no coloration and the solar baked in the course of the windshield; inspite of the home windows open, she was once too hot. the shortcoming of color had no longer been an issue all 12 months, after all. within the wintry weather, she might come and take a seat with the automobile operating. by no means did she remain lengthy. simply enough to stare upon the door and to recollect the fresh, shiny foyer, the massive toilet with its glossy chrome rail that ran alongside a part of one wall; a rail that right away, probably, a few outdated doddering woman used to be preserving directly to, in an effort to hoist herself off the toilet—the rail Olive had stared at as all of them sat, legs splayed out, arms at the back of their backs. In hospitals, lives have been replaced forever. A newspaper acknowledged the nurse had now not lower back to paintings, yet probably by way of now she had. in regards to the medical professional, Olive didn’t recognize. the child saved getting up and sitting backtrack at the rest room seat. whilst he sat, he’d be hunched ahead, the gun in a single hand, the opposite hand folded in entrance of his mouth, him chewing the hell out of these fingertips. The sirens didn't sound for terribly lengthy. She had suggestion that, yet probably that they had sounded for a very long time. It was once the pharmacist who’d been in a position to sign a janitor to name the police, a unique unit dropped at negotiate with Pig-Face, yet none of them had identified that then. A cellphone saved ringing and preventing. They waited, the nurse rolling her head again, remaining her eyes. Olive’s little plastic strip of a belt had come untied. The reminiscence of this was once a splotch of thick, dense paint. The belt, someplace alongside the road, had come untied, and the papery costume used to be open. She attempted crossing one leg over the opposite, yet that made the robe open extra, and she or he may perhaps see her substantial belly with its folds, and her thighs, white as tremendous fish bellies. “Honestly,” Henry stated. “Can’t you discover whatever to hide my spouse? She’s all uncovered. ” “Shut up, Henry,” Olive acknowledged. The nurse opened her eyes and gazed over at Olive, and the healthcare professional after all grew to become his head to examine her. They have been all her now. “God, Henry. ” The boy leaned ahead, and stated softly to Henry, “See—you gotta be quiet, or someone’s gonna blow your head off. Your motherfucking head,” he additional. He sat again. His look, as he appeared round, fell on Olive, and he stated, “Oh, Jesus, lady,” a glance of genuine soreness passing over his face. “Well, what am I alleged to do? ” she acknowledged, furious—oh, she was once livid; and if her enamel have been chattering earlier than, she now felt sweat rolling down her face; she one wet, livid sack of horror. She tasted salt and didn't be aware of if those have been tears or rivulets of sweat. “Okay, pay attention.

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