my name is lucy barton, it says on the cover, and while i neither really care for the title, nor feel inspired by the name lucy itself (although i suddenly come to think of plenty of fictional lucys that once inspired me, or made me laugh), i pick it up – this, so called, bestseller – from the lower shelf, where it sits, more or less hidden from any potential buyer’s view. except mine.
i am in search of comfort, as i seem to be stuck in the bleakest of times, although i also ponder the possibility my current state of mind mainly is an effect of aging or a really bad cold, or rather, or rather, i wish my state of mind is affected by aging and/or a really annoying cold.
i pay for the story about lucy barton, and bring it home, not knowing i will, within a month or two, return to the bookstore, once, and then twice, to purchase this story again, just because the book has become so dear to me i cannot imagine lending my own copy to anyone else, not even the closest of friend. not knowing i will in the near future tell random strangers about lucy barton, like the young cashier at a clothing store who proudly declared she prefers reading thick books, just like i did, many years ago, when i still believed in miracles, the goodwill of people and humanity.
this work, by elizabeth strout, has, for reasons more or less unknown to me, moved me as few books have, at least during my adult years. still, i am not entirely sure why the woman’s words moved me to tears every time i turned the pages of her (seemingly) humble, little book.
it moved me to such an extent, i cannot ever read it again – not even with the purpose of trying to figure out this writer’s tricks – due to my fear the magic of the account will forever be lost, along with that moment in time, when i needed nothing more than lucy’s own words to help me understand what i once was, and forever will be.
Anita B Krišto© 2017