![]() ![]() Lucy is recovering in hospital after a mysterious infection following the removal of her appendix. ![]() In both its deficiency (an expression of tenderness curbed by protocols both professional and personal) and its sincerity (the militant earnestness of the salute), the gesture seems to contain everything Strout is saying about love: that it’s hard and awkward and will always be inadequately expressed, but that it’s also something we need to grab and hold in our fists. E arly in Elizabeth Strout’s new novel, My Name Is Lucy Barton, the narrator, a doctor, after wishing his patient good night and leaving her hospital bedside, “made a fist and kissed it, then held it in the air as he unswished the curtain and left the room”. ![]()
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