I took these screen shots before I recorded my final book* of 2025, so the stats are off by one book (which turned out to be a 5-star read)
A Far-flung Life by M. L. Stedman
Click here for my 2025 Year-End Summary and Top Picks.
Nature & Books belong to the eyes that see them.
- Emerson
It's hard country, out this way. Back in England, a farm might support two or three sheep per acre. Here, with the lack of rainfall, you need more like forty acres per sheep. There is heat. There is sun. But on winter nights the water in the tanks will freeze over. The searing light that coaxes life into being here will bleach it out of existence with the same indifferent shrug, leaving blanched trees, and rusted corrugated iron on the roofs of abandoned homesteads. The wind that brings the rain can bring floods and flatten shearing sheds. Everything that can do you good can also do you harm here--that's just the way of it.This land has seen improbable things: the evolution of marsupials and monotremes; of flightless birds and animals that fly. It's seen continents split and islands arise. It's seen oceans turn to desert and desert turn to glaciers. And it's watched people drag their little lives across its surface, flat and unforgiving.
In the homestead at Meredith Downs, silence is a canvas on which each sound trails like a color. The wind; a single fly; the clatter of a pan; the distant barking of a kelpie; the banging of a flywire door. There is no continuous murmur of traffic. No vague stream of voices. Each sound emerges for its solo, then fades into stillness, into a silence so complete it makes music of your heartbeat in your ears.
“Olive was silent for a long moment. Then she said, meditatively, “It’s quite a world we live in, isn’t it. For years I thought: I will miss all this when I die. But the way the world is these days, I sometimes think I’ll be damned glad to be dead.” She sat quietly looking ahead through the windshield. “I’ll still miss it, though,” she said. Bob was watching her. He said, “I like you, Olive.” “Phooey. Now help me get out of this car,” Olive replied.”
and
“Lucy stood up and pulled on her coat. “Those are my stories,” she said, and then bent down to put her boots back on. “But you’re right. They are stories of loneliness and love.” Lucy stepped into the tiny kitchen for a moment and returned with a paper towel and she bent down and soaked up the drops of water on the floor left from her boots. Then she picked up her bag and said, “And the small connections we make in this world if we are lucky.” And then to Olive’s amazement, Lucy said, smiling at her with a gentleness on her face, “And I feel that way about you. A connection. Love. So thank you.” She moved toward the door. Olive said, “Wait.” As Lucy turned, Olive said, “Well, phooey. I feel connected to you too. So there.” She stuck out her tongue.”
Here is what I did not know that morning in March: I did not know that I would never see my apartment again. I did not know that one of my friends a family member would die of this virus. I did not know that my relationship with my daughters would change in ways I could never have anticipated. I did not know that my entire life would become something new.
Who knows why people are different? We are born with a certain nature, I think. And then the world takes its swings at us.
I thought then that William had been right to bring me up here, where I could walk freely even if I didn't see many people. The question of why some people are luckier than others--I have no answer for this.
It has been said that the second year of widowhood is worse than the first--the idea being, I think, that the shock has worn off and now one has to simply live with the loss...
And I also understood: Grief is a private thing. God, is it a private thing.
It is a gift in this life that we do not know what awaits us.
Heartwarming as well as somber ... Although simple on the surface, Strout's new novel manages, like her other, to encompass love and friendship, joy and anxiety, grief and grievances, loneliness and shame--and a troubling sense of growing unrest and division in America.... Strout's understanding of the human condition is capacious. ~NPR
Highly recommend, but should be read in order, at least with the Amgash books.
Grief is such a--oh, it is such a solitary thing; this is the terror of it, I think. It is like sliding down the outside of a really long glass building while nobody sees you.
"I would like to say a few things about my first husband, William."
"Also (I suddenly remembered this too) ..."
"What I mean to say"
“I don’t want to say any more about that...”
Since I have two other books by Strout to read (Lucy by the Sea is up next), I pushed through to finish this one even though it's not one that I can recommend. Had it been longer (I read it in less than two nights), I may have given up. Overall, a disappointment.
My reviews of the other books in this series:
My Name is Lucy Barton (4/5)
Anything is Possible (3/5)