Anything Is Possible, Elizabeth Strout, Hardcover, 254pp, April, 2017, Random House
Pulitzer Prize winner, Elizabeth Strout, is one of those writers whose work conjures the feeling one had as a child when first discovering the magic ability of books to draw you into worlds not your own, and yet, worlds where you discovered and explored parts of yourself you’d not known about before; one of those writers who introduce you to your own soul by illuminating with truth and insight and glorious, marvelous, extraordinary language the souls of their characters.
One of those writers who reminds you in your jaded, worn out from having so many mediocre to meh books thrown at you that this is writing! This is why I read.
So, you might just as well stop wasting time reading my thoughts about Elizabeth Strout’s latest magic act and go get the book. Right now. Read it for yourself. Go on.
Are you still here? All right, well then, I warn you there is little I am going to or can say that hasn’t already been better said by others. So, if you must read a review, I suggest Jennifer Senior’s from the April 26 edition of The New York Times. [click here] Go ahead. Click. Read a real review.
And STILL you’re reading me? Well, it’s not exactly what I am known for, but I will try to keep this brief so you can go read the book.
The novel is a hybrid, a beautiful, cohesive portrait composed of stand-alone pieces which coalesce into an emotional chiaroscuro of such depth and subtlety and artistry, one wants to spend forever exploring the shades and shadows and light and dark therein.
There are many themes woven through Anything Is Possible, but the thread which mesmerized me most was the unmasking of all the ways in which humans can misapprehend and misconstrue what looks and feels like and seems to be reality, and how the discovery of those misunderstandings or deceits or ignorances result in disappointment, anger, sorrow, and, almost always, more confusion. Anything Is Possible illuminates in breathtaking, devastating accumulation of particularities that even with all the details and gossip and glut of information we have about each other and the world, we really know very little about anything at all; including ourselves.
This book illustrates the crushing loneliness and ultimate solitude of being alive better than anything I have ever read. It captures the ways in which even the people we love the most are mysteries to us, and we to them, all of us with secrets, and how the distortions caused by the things we haven’t told and the stories we don’t know disrupt and limit and often destroy our lives.
I promised I would keep this short and I considered quoting the novel at length, but, while nearly every sentence is chiseled and shaped like something Michelangelo has wrought into life from marble, they are each more a masterpiece in context. So, I won’t quote. I will simply tell you one more time: GO! GO NOW! READ THIS BOOK! Because Elizabeth Strout is indeed a Michelangelo of literature, and she has made from the marble of our lives, a thing of such beauty it rivals his David.
Go. Read. Marvel.