My Name is Lucy Barton
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A simple hospital visit becomes a portal to the tender relationship between mother and daughter in this extraordinary novel by the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Olive Kitteridge and The Burgess Boys.
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#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A simple hospital visit becomes a portal to the tender relationship between mother and daughter in this extraordinary novel by the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Olive Kitteridge and The Burgess Boys.Soon to be a Broadway play starring Laura Linney produced by Manhattan Theatre Club and London Theatre Company • LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY The Washington Post • The New York Times Book Review • NPR • BookPage • LibraryReads • Minneapolis Star Tribune • St. Louis Post-Dispatch
Lucy Barton is recovering slowly from what should have been a simple operation. Her mother, to whom she hasn't spoken for many years, comes to see her. Gentle gossip about people from Lucy's childhood in Amgash, Illinois, seems to reconnect them, but just below the surface lie the tension and longing that have informed every aspect of Lucy's life: her escape from her troubled family, her desire to become a writer, her marriage, her love for her two daughters. Knitting this powerful narrative together is the brilliant storytelling voice of Lucy herself: keenly observant, deeply human, and truly unforgettable.
Praise for My Name Is Lucy Barton
"A quiet, sublimely merciful contemporary novel about love, yearning, and resilience in a family damaged beyond words."-The Boston Globe
"It is Lucy's gentle honesty, complex relationship with her husband, and nuanced response to her mother's shortcomings that make this novel so subtly powerful."-San Francisco Chronicle
"A short novel about love, particularly the complicated love between mothers and daughters, but also simpler, more sudden bonds . . . It evokes these connections in a style so spare, so pure and so profound the book almost seems to be a kind of scripture or sutra, if a very down-to-earth and unpretentious one."-Newsday
"Spectacular . . . Smart and cagey in every way. It is both a book of withholdings and a book of great openness and
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wisdom. . . . [Strout] is in supreme and magnificent command of this novel at all times."-Lily King, The Washington Post
"An aching, illuminating look at mother-daughter devotion."-People
"An aching, illuminating look at mother-daughter devotion."-People
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Lese-Probe zu „My Name is Lucy Barton “
There was a time, and it was many years ago now, when I had to stay in a hospital for almost nine weeks. This was in New York City, and at night a view of the Chrysler Building, with its geometric brilliance of lights, was directly visible from my bed. During the day, the building s beauty receded, and gradually it became simply one more large structure against a blue sky, and all the city s buildings seemed remote, silent, far away. It was May, and then June, and I remember how I would stand and look out the window at the sidewalk below and watch the young women my age in their spring clothes, out on their lunch breaks; I could see their heads moving in conversation, their blouses rippling in the breeze. I thought how when I got out of the hospital I would never again walk down the sidewalk without giving thanks for being one of those people, and for many years I did that I would remember the view from the hospital window and be glad for the sidewalk I was walking on.To begin with, it was a simple story: I had gone into the hospital to have my appendix out. After two days they gave me food, but I couldn t keep it down. And then a fever arrived. No one could isolate any bacteria or figure out what had gone wrong. No one ever did. I took fluids through one IV, and antibiotics came through another. They were attached to a metal pole on wobbly wheels that I pushed around with me, but I got tired easily. Toward the beginning of July, whatever problem had taken hold of me went away. But until then I was in a very strange state a literally feverish waiting and I really agonized. I had a husband and two small daughters at home; I missed my girls terribly, and I worried about them so much I was afraid it was making me sicker. When my doctor, to whom I felt a deep attachment he was a jowly-faced Jewish man who wore such a gentle sadness on his shoulders, whose grandparents and three aunts, I heard him tell a nurse, had been killed in the camps, and who had a wife and
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four grown children here in New York City this lovely man, I think, felt sorry for me, and saw to it that my girls they were five and six could visit me if they had no illnesses. They were brought into my room by a family friend, and I saw how their little faces were dirty, and so was their hair, and I pushed my IV apparatus into the shower with them, but they cried out, Mommy, you re so skinny! They were really frightened. They sat with me on the bed while I dried their hair with a towel, and then they drew pictures, but with apprehension, meaning that they did not interrupt themselves every minute by saying, Mommy, Mommy, do you like this? Mommy, look at the dress of my fairy princess! They said very little, the younger one especially seemed unable to speak, and when I put my arms around her, I saw her lower lip thrust out and her chin tremble; she was a tiny thing, trying so hard to be brave. When they left I did not look out the window to watch them walk away with my friend who had brought them, and who had no children of her own.
My husband, naturally, was busy running the household and also busy with his job, and he didn t often have a chance to visit me. He had told me when we met that he hated hospitals his father had died in one when he was fourteen and I saw now that he meant this. In the first room I had been assigned was an old woman dying next to me; she kept calling out for help it was striking to me how uncaring the nurses were, as she cried that she was dying. My husband could not stand it he could not stand visiting me there, is what I mean and he had me moved to a single room. Our health insurance didn t cover this luxury, and every day was a drain on our savings. I was grateful not to hear that poor woman crying out, but had anyone known the extent of my loneliness I would have been embarrassed
My husband, naturally, was busy running the household and also busy with his job, and he didn t often have a chance to visit me. He had told me when we met that he hated hospitals his father had died in one when he was fourteen and I saw now that he meant this. In the first room I had been assigned was an old woman dying next to me; she kept calling out for help it was striking to me how uncaring the nurses were, as she cried that she was dying. My husband could not stand it he could not stand visiting me there, is what I mean and he had me moved to a single room. Our health insurance didn t cover this luxury, and every day was a drain on our savings. I was grateful not to hear that poor woman crying out, but had anyone known the extent of my loneliness I would have been embarrassed
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Autoren-Porträt von Elizabeth Strout
Elizabeth Strout
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Elizabeth Strout
- 2016, 240 Seiten, Maße: 13 x 20,1 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0812979524
- ISBN-13: 9780812979527
- Erscheinungsdatum: 28.09.2016
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
A quiet, sublimely merciful contemporary novel about love, yearning, and resilience in a family damaged beyond words. The Boston GlobeSensitive, deceptively simple . . . [Elizabeth] Strout captures the pull between the ruthlessness required to write without restraint and the necessity of accepting others flaws. It is Lucy s gentle honesty, complex relationship with her husband, and nuanced response to her mother s shortcomings that make this novel so subtly powerful. . . . My Name Is Lucy Barton like all of Strout s fiction is more complex than it first appears, and all the more emotionally persuasive for it. San Francisco Chronicle
A short novel about love, particularly the complicated love between mothers and daughters, but also simpler, more sudden bonds . . . It evokes these connections in a style so spare, so pure and so profound the book almost seems to be a kind of scripture or sutra. Newsday
Spectacular . . . Smart and cagey in every way . . . A book of withholdings and a book of great openness and wisdom. . . . [Strout] is in supreme and magnificent command of this novel at all times. The Washington Post
An aching, illuminating look at mother-daughter devotion. People
This slim, perceptive novel packs more sentiment and pain into its unsparingly honest and forthright prose than novels two and three times as long. Strout . . . has always awed us with her ability to put into words the mysterious and unfathomable ways in which people cherish each other. Chicago Tribune
Lucy Barton is . . . potent with distilled emotion. Without a hint of self-pity, Strout captures the ache of loneliness we all feel sometimes. Time
There is not a scintilla of sentimentality in this exquisite novel. Instead, in its careful words and vibrating silences, My Name Is Lucy Barton offers us a rare wealth of emotion, from darkest suffering to I was so happy. Oh, I was happy simple joy.
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Claire Messud, The New York Times Book Review
Deeply affecting. The Guardian
Strout allies herself less with recent autobiographical fictions than with Ernest Hemingway, whose style remains unmatched for its capacity to convey the effects of trauma without sentimentality. . . . Reading My Name Is Lucy Barton, I was frequently put in mind of Hemingway s famous injunction to write the truest sentence that you know. The Wall Street Journal
Impressionistic and haunting . . . With Lucy Barton, [Strout] reminds us of the power of our stories and our ability to transcend our troubled narratives. Miami Herald
Writing of this quality comes from a commitment to listening, from a perfect attunement to the human condition, from an attention to reality so exact that it goes beyond a skill and becomes a virtue. Hilary Mantel
Deeply affecting. The Guardian
Strout allies herself less with recent autobiographical fictions than with Ernest Hemingway, whose style remains unmatched for its capacity to convey the effects of trauma without sentimentality. . . . Reading My Name Is Lucy Barton, I was frequently put in mind of Hemingway s famous injunction to write the truest sentence that you know. The Wall Street Journal
Impressionistic and haunting . . . With Lucy Barton, [Strout] reminds us of the power of our stories and our ability to transcend our troubled narratives. Miami Herald
Writing of this quality comes from a commitment to listening, from a perfect attunement to the human condition, from an attention to reality so exact that it goes beyond a skill and becomes a virtue. Hilary Mantel
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