elizabeth strout

Elizabeth Strout's new novel, My Name is Lucie Barton, returns to the mother-daughter turf of her debut, Amy and Isabelle, published a decade and a half ago.
Instead of the familiar story of flappers, jazz clubs and gangsters, Harvard historian McGirr argues that Prohibition's greatest legacy was an expansion of government crime fighting. She sees in Prohibition the roots of an expanded prison system, a more aggressive F.B.I. and a more powerful state.
If you loved 'Olive Kitteridge,' you'll adore this new book by author Elizabeth Strout.
Did anyone really think that an issue of the New Yorker would magically include even 50 percent women writers? No. Did we want to be reminded of that perpetual imbalance? Perhaps not. Did we need to be reminded? Absolutely.
In contemporary Maine, a teenage boy's racially-charged prank prompts his New York attorney uncles to converge on the town of their youth in Elizabeth Strout's latest, The Burgess Boys, but it's the sister who never left who understands alienation best.
Notable passage: "Bob was a tall man, fifty-one years old, and here was the thing about Bob: He was a likable fellow. To
I don't wish to be younger (maybe because I'm blessed with good health and plenty of energy), but I can't deny that I'm slower. We don't spend enough time sharing with each other about our blessings or, more to the point, about our fears about aging.
Many of us are heading back to work or school. Sort of puts one in a snappish mood, doesn't it? This time of year, novel readers can viscerally relate to fictional characters who are snarky, snippy, and smart-alecky, to quote a recently accessed thesaurus.
My first "HuffPost Books" piece was posted a year ago this month, and I'd like to use that trivial anniversary to thank commenters for introducing me to many authors and novels I had never read before.
Olive Kitteridge is enthralling and appalling, and it might cause novel readers to find themselves falling... in love again with short stories.
During the long year that The Forever Marriage was circulating, I sought out portraits of imperfect but redeemable women.
My mom was a stay-at-home, bake-from-scratch, children-come-first mother. It was a wonderful way to grow up, but I never
In her inability to feel content with her life, with the "blackness" that accompanies her through her household tasks and is often expressed through anger and even cruelty, Olive seems, in a way, to be too big for the town that has always been her home.
When Beverly Jensen, my wife, was dying in 2003, she feared she'd been given talents and had not used them. But in fact she had.
It seems we are in a period of renewed feminism. Don't worry, these periods tend to pass rather quickly. wrote Anne Finch
The slow sell can't be done pre-publication. It requires -- wait for it -- reading. My last week's reading is a case in point: I read David Mitchell's Black Swan Green.
I'm a southern Kentucky native -- grew up just a few miles away from the Tennessee state line, turned to Nashville in my growing up as the nearest "real" city -- and yet this weekend's Southern Festival of Books was my very first.
From the Man Booker judges: English Hilary Mantel has written nine novels previous to Wolf Hall and a memoir. She is a book