I’m happy to join Kat and the Unravelers today with a Hitchhiker photo that looks much the same as last week, but if I had remembered to take a photo while it was still light out, you might be able to spy 9 more teeth.
I finished two books this week; one was a decent read and one was spectacular. Set in 1977 suburban Rochester, Lake Effect
explores a moment of restlessness that ripples through two families,
beginning with Nina’s impulsive affair and radiating outward into her
daughter Clara’s life for years to come. Sweeney is at her best when she
captures the quiet dissatisfaction of adulthood and the way a single
choice can fracture a family’s sense of stability. The writing is
observant and often wry, especially in its portrayal of marriage,
longing, and the stories people tell themselves to justify their
actions.
But this is also a book where nearly everyone behaves
badly, and not always in ways that feel illuminating. The adults make
reckless, self-absorbed choices, but what’s more frustrating is how
those patterns echo into the next generation. Clara, as a grown woman,
remains stuck in the emotional wake of her mother’s decisions, yet she,
too, makes choices that are difficult to sympathize with. Instead of
deepening the novel’s themes, this generational mirroring sometimes
makes the story feel repetitive rather than revelatory.
The title
is a strong and fitting metaphor. A lake effect storm, when cold air
sweeps over warmer water and produces sudden, intense snowfall,
perfectly captures the emotional climate of the book. Small shifts in
temperature lead to outsized, unexpected consequences, and Sweeney seems
interested in how quickly lives can be altered by moments of desire or
impulsivity. Still, like those storms, the impact here can feel more
blustery than transformative.
In the end, Lake Effect has
moments of insight and emotional truth, but it didn’t fully cohere for
me. It was kind of a fun read for me to see just how badly the
characters could behave, but not one that lingered much past the last
page for me. This was three stars for me.
I’ll admit it: I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted
to leave Olive Kitteridge behind. There’s something about Olive, her
sharp edges, her loneliness, her unexpected tenderness, that lingers
long after the last page. So when I opened The Things We Never Say, I did so with a tiny bit of reluctance, unsure if I was ready to trade her in for Strout's newest character.
But Elizabeth Strout knows exactly what she’s doing.
Artie
Dam is, in many ways, the opposite of Olive, gentler, quieter, more
inwardly unsettled, but he is every bit as real. He’s a good man, simply
trying to live in a world that often feels confusing and off-kilter.
Strout captures his inner life with such precision that his questions,
about marriage, about how little we truly know even the people we love,
and about truth and the things we never say are ones that felt much like
questions I've asked myself.
And that’s the magic here: nothing
“big” needs to happen for everything to feel enormous. A single
revelation ripples outward, forcing Artie (and the reader) to reconsider
what a life is made of, what we say, what we don’t, and what it costs
to keep certain truths buried.
What sets Strout apart, too, is
her ability to write about the current political and cultural climate
with honesty and restraint. She doesn’t grandstand or simplify; instead,
she lets it seep naturally into her characters’ lives, the way it does
in ours, through unease, conversation, silence, sometimes quiet
division, and being appalled and horrified daily. It’s one of the few
portrayals in fiction that has actually felt true. As always, her prose
is deceptively simple, clean, precise, and deeply compassionate. She
sees her characters clearly, flaws and all, and loves them anyway. And
because she does, we do, too.
There’s a passing reference to
Olive Kitteridge that made me inordinately happy, one of those small,
perfect moments that reminds you all of Strout’s characters exist in the
same emotional universe. It felt like running into an old friend when
you least expect it.
By the end, I wasn’t missing Olive anymore
(well, not quite as much). Artie Dam had taken his place beside her as
another beautifully drawn, fully human character trying to make sense of
things that don’t always make sense.
Five stars for a novel that
feels both intimate and expansive, and for a writer who continues to
illuminate the quiet, complicated truths of being alive.
Thank you to Edelweiss and Random House for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on May 5, 2026.
What are you making and reading this April Fool's Day?