Olive Kitteridge is a linked story collection published by Elizabeth Strout in 2008 that won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction the following year. Its organizing figure, Olive Kitteridge herself, is a retired mathematics teacher in the small coastal Maine town of Crosby, and she is not, by any conventional measure, a likeable person. She is blunt to the point of cruelty, resistant to warmth, contemptuous of sentimentality, and capable of causing real damage to the people around her through the force of her need to be right. The book follows her and the town she shapes over approximately thirty years.
The thirteen stories range from pieces in which Olive is the central consciousness to those where she appears only at the edge of the frame, glimpsed by other characters who have their own complete lives and dramas. The technique creates something that functions less like a conventional short story collection and more like a novel seen from multiple angles: a portrait of a community built up story by story, with Olive as the weather system that influences every microclimate.
The stories deal with depression, suicide, infidelity, loneliness, aging, the difficulty of love between people who cannot say what they feel, and the small cruelties and small kindnesses that constitute most of a life. Strout handles all of this with extraordinary economy. Nothing is overdone. Everything lands.
Olive herself changes less than the reader’s understanding of her. By the final story, which is set after the death of her husband Henry and covers her difficult, late-life marriage to a widower from her church, Olive has become capable of a kind of recognition that she was not at the beginning of the book. Whether this constitutes growth is a question the novel leaves open. She is not rehabilitated; she is illuminated.
Henry Kitteridge, Olive’s husband, appears in several stories and is almost her opposite: genuinely warm, capable of feeling, prone to affection he mostly cannot express to his wife because his wife doesn’t welcome it. His unfulfilled feeling for a pharmacy employee he employed for years is one of the collection’s recurring threads, handled with delicacy. He is as trapped as Olive, in different ways and by different failures.
The Maine coast is present throughout as both landscape and atmosphere: a place of real beauty and real hardship, where winter is serious and isolation is a fact. Strout uses it neither sentimentally nor harshly but as the simply true background to lives that are neither exceptional nor unimportant.
Depression runs through the collection as a quiet emergency. Several characters are suicidal; several are recovering from loss; several are simply enduring. Strout is careful not to pathologize ordinary unhappiness or to minimize clinical depression. Both exist in these stories, and she distinguishes between them through specificity rather than labeling.
Strout’s prose is one of the great achievements of contemporary American fiction: clear, precise, almost invisible, doing its work without calling attention to itself. She writes the interior lives of ordinary people with the same attentiveness that other writers reserve for the exceptional. A sentence that appears to be simply reporting a fact will accumulate into something devastating three pages later. The stories are short but feel complete; Strout has the gift of compression without sacrifice.
The book spans roughly thirty years of life in coastal Maine, from the 1970s through the early 2000s. This is a period of significant economic change for this kind of community: the fishing economy declining, the tourist economy growing, the people who have lived there for generations becoming strangers in their own town. Strout does not foreground this history but it is present as the context within which these lives unfold.
Olive Kitteridge is one of those rare books that rewards re-reading more than most. On first read, you absorb the stories as they come. On second read, you see how precisely calibrated the whole is: how the stories speak to each other, how characters reappear with new significance, how Strout has built a complete world out of thirteen pieces that are each complete in themselves. It is also a book about a kind of person who is rarely the center of literary fiction: a difficult older woman who has never been easy to love and knows it and does not know what to do about it. Strout treats her with clear eyes and genuine respect.