Is Elizabeth Strout’s new novel her best yet? ‘The Things We Never Say’ review

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.

As a high school history teacher and a friend, Artie Dam is beloved. His principal hobby, sailing the waters of coastal Massachusetts, brings him bliss. But his wife seems cool and his son distant, and 57-year-old Artie is plagued by an indissoluble loneliness that tempts him to end his life.

In “The Things We Never Say,” Elizabeth Strout, the Pulitzer Prize-winning creator of Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, reprises her familiar themes: the mysteries of human personality, the perils of solitude, the occasional possibility of grace. All this she expresses in deceptively simple, occasionally mannered prose that draws readers in and immerses them in her fictional worlds.

Strout has meticulously constructed these worlds in linked short stories and novels, set in imaginary small towns such as Crosby, Maine, and Amgash, Ill. With Artie Dam, she has chosen a new protagonist and setting. The time is the post-pandemic present, on both sides of an election destined to further divide an already polarized populace. When a conspicuously unnamed figure recaptures the presidency, half the country is left “stunned, the other half jubilant.”

In this context, even friendships become fraught. Artie worries that a new confidant, who literally saved his life, may have voted the wrong way. Avoiding politics, as he avoids so much else, seems the most practical course.

A man of good will wrestling with middle-aged angst, Artie is “in many ways, the embodiment of the American dream,” Strout tells us. While his thoughts drive the narrative, he is also seen prismatically through other characters, a typical Strout device.

We meet a fellow teacher and a student who both love Artie, a longtime female friend who moves away and misses him, a troubled male student who credits him with a life-changing intervention. Then there is Artie’s wife, Evie, a family therapist, who finds him alternately considerate, overly soft and downright irritating (with his infernal white socks!), and his son, Rob, who views him as an enigma.

“All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes,” Strout writes, “meaning that no matter what we think we know we can never fully understand how we appear to others.” As with her title, Strout is often right on the nose, telling readers exactly what to think.

Another of her favorite techniques is shifting temporal perspective. Strout flashes back to reveal fragments of Artie’s past, including his working-class childhood, his mother’s psychosis and a car accident in which Rob was driving and his girlfriend was killed. In the wake of the tragedy, Strout writes, “the whole world became an ocean overwhelming them with huge waves that swept over them and pulled them under …” It’s a metaphor that prefigures Artie’s own near-death by drowning.

Strout’s narrative also flashes forward at times, muting suspense, revealing more than we might wish. The point, it seems, is to underline the brevity and fragility of her characters’ lives, and of our own.

Along with loneliness, Artie wrestles with the concept of free will and his own potential (like the omniscient author) to see the future. Strout seems to be asking similar questions: How much of our existence is fixed or fated? Given the limits of our personalities and the constraints of our circumstances, how free are our choices? To what extent do we manufacture our own fate?

As “The Things We Never Say” begins, Artie is saying goodbye to a widowed friend who is moving to Ohio to be close to her daughter. They share a moment of both great warmth and impending loss. Then, in quick succession, we see Artie at home with his wife, and at school with his students, another arena in which contemporary politics intrudes.

It turns out that Artie’s estrangement from his family is grounded in concrete circumstances: Both Evie and Rob have been keeping a weighty secret from him, one that Rob will eventually disclose.

Artie’s new knowledge reshuffles his relationships in unexpected ways. It draws him closer to Rob, who is bouncing awkwardly between his concert pianist wife and another woman. It forces Artie to reconsider what he thought he knew about Evie and makes other relationships more intelligible. And it ensnares Artie in a web of secrecy, underlining how “blind we humans are … moving through life as though through shadows.”

Artie could confront Evie, with unforeseeable consequences. But either fear or compassion, or some combination of the two, stops him. “And so,” Strout writes, “they lived their lie, only now they were living it together.” Later, Artie, caught in an act of petty criminality, will long in vain “to be innocent and incorruptible.”

When they are not merely self-deceived, Strout’s characters struggle with isolation and despair. But, as Artie discovers, brief communions are possible, and redemption, however modest, is often near at hand.

One of the recurring tropes in “The Things We Never Say” is of a younger Artie spying his sister Maria eating confectioners’ sugar. Strange as it was, he understood, Strout writes, “that the poor girl had just desperately wanted sweetness in her life.” Here is Strout at her most emotionally precise, capturing a universal human longing in a single ineradicable image.

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.