The year of pandemic living

I just finished Elizabeth Strout's new book, Lucy by the Sea, and found it to be a good read. The main character, Lucy Barton (a writer whose second husband recently died), finds herself riding out the pandemic in a rented house in Maine together with her ex-husband William, who has orchestrated the entire arrangement. He and she have remained friends after their divorce; he contacts her right before the pandemic hits bigtime to tell her that they need to leave Manhattan immediately. She acquiesces rather quickly, knowing that he is a scientist (parasitologist) and that he probably knows something she doesn't. The novel details their year together in a house by the sea, and how their relationship is rekindled after many years of living apart. William is now in his seventies and has major health problems, whereas Lucy appears to be in her late sixties and still relatively healthy, although she suffers from anxiety and the occasional panic attack. They are older and (presumably) wiser, dealing with regret and with the knowledge of their mortality. He is sorry for how he treated her (had affairs); she seems to be struggling with being alternatively judgmental and forgiving. In that sense, she is like all of us who have been hurt by someone--we want to forgive, we do forgive, but we wonder if we are being weak by doing so. We wonder if we should be hard and unforgiving. The novel deals frankly with the pandemic and the political events of the past several years. 

What struck me about the novel was the description of the loneliness that many Americans felt during the pandemic, as well as the panic and anxiety that many of them lived with each day. It was different here in Oslo; we underwent a similar type of lockdown, but I don't remember feeling that loneliness, the way Strout described it. It felt so empty, so desperate, so sad. And yet, I can only speak for myself. I know that the pandemic affected many people here in similar ways, especially those who lived alone. Perhaps that is what made the difference--having someone with whom to share lockdown. Because social life as we knew it ceased to exist. There were no get-togethers, parties, weddings and reunions were cancelled, bars and restaurants were closed, and people worked from home. I didn't find the latter bothering at all, in fact, I preferred it because I never felt lonely at home as I did at work. But again, everyone is different, and I can only speak for myself. 

Strout's book has gotten good reviews, but as always, I'm interested in the negative reviews as well. Those who are negative about the book are so because they did not want to read a pandemic book that reminded them of a horrible time. Additionally, they felt that very little happened to the main characters and that there really wasn't all that much to write about. While the former is true, I disagree that there wasn't really much to write about. The exploration of one's emotional life is not nothing. Lucy finally has the time to figure out how she feels about many things, and what she finds out is that life in general and her life in particular are complex, and that most of us live in the gray area between the black and white. In other words, while we would like life to be black and white, it is not. We are always struggling with our thoughts and emotions. But in the end, we are who we are and as we approach the last chapter of our lives, it is unlikely that there will be major personality changes. If you are the forgiving gentle type, you will most likely remain that way. If you are the aggressive unforgiving type or the philandering type, ditto. So that begs the question of whether she can trust William when he tells her at the end of the novel that he loves her. He seems to, and perhaps he always did, throughout his affairs and their divorce. The question, as her daughters remind her of, is whether she can trust William. The novel provides no answers to that question, and as Lucy herself points out, “It is a gift in this life that we do not know what awaits us.” How true.