Every once in a while I finish a book and immediately know how I feel about it. This wasn’t one of those books.
I’ve found myself thinking about “The Things We Never Say” by Elizabeth Strout on and off for the past couple of days since finishing this book, trying to decide whether I liked it or disliked it. My first reaction after turning the last page was, “Good grief…how is this book rated so highly?” That may sound harsh, but hear me out.
This isn’t really a book about anything in the way most novels are. There’s no mystery to solve, no big reveal waiting at the end, and no heart-pounding plot twists that keep you turning pages long after bedtime. It’s simply…life.
It’s a collection of people carrying invisible burdens, living ordinary lives, hiding ordinary secrets. In that sense, the book feels incredibly real. Some of its most emotional moments aren’t dramatic at all – they’re heartbreaking because they’re relatable. They’re the kinds of struggles that happen quietly behind closed doors every single day. And I think that’s exactly what the author intended.
This is a character-driven novel, not a plot-driven one. The story isn’t asking, “What’s going to happen next?” Instead, it’s asking, “How well do we ever really know another person?” Even the people we love the most are carrying thoughts they’ll never say out loud. I genuinely appreciated that message.
Unfortunately, appreciating the message didn’t make the reading experience any easier. My biggest hurdle wasn’t the story – it was the writing itself.
Imagine listening to someone tell a story, only they stop every few seconds to remember another detail… which reminds them of something else… which leads to another memory… before eventually circling back to the original point. That’s what reading this book felt like. The sentences just… keep… going. I’m talking about paragraphs masquerading as sentences. The author strings together multiple thoughts using dashes, semicolons, commas, and side notes until you’ve completely forgotten how the sentence even started.
Take this passage:
“Below their basement (garden) apartment – where through the back door there was no garden, only a space filled with old air conditioners and a few spare tires and ancient heating units that had been stored there seemingly forever – was another basement, they referred to this as the cellar; it was big enough to stand up in, filled with furnaces and oil burners, and it always had the smell of oil; but in that cellar Artie’s mother had her clothesline, and even though it was often damp down there, the clothes – he remembered his father’s underpants and Marie’s blouses – would be hung on the clothesline with wooden clothespins.”
That entire paragraph is one sentence. Yikes.
I found myself rereading passages over and over, not because they were deep or profound, but because I genuinely lost the thread of what was being said.
Another writing habit that started wearing on me was the author’s constant use of “meaning…” in the middle of a sentence.
For example:
“Her name was Heather Morrison, and her family had – naturally enough – gone crazy with grief, and they tried for more than a year to sue Rob Dam, meaning his parents.”
It’s almost as though the author doesn’t quite trust readers to make the connection themselves, so everything gets explained a second time. After a while, those little interruptions became distracting.
Then there’s the overall structure. One minute you’re inside a character’s head. The next minute you’re reading an outside narrator’s observations. Then suddenly you’re in someone else’s memories – all on the same page, sometimes within the same paragraph. Instead of feeling layered, it felt scattered.
Honestly, it’s one of the most disjointed books I’ve ever read. And that’s what makes rating this book so difficult. Because underneath all that tangled writing is a thoughtful idea.
The novel reminds us that every person we meet is fighting battles we know nothing about. Everyone carries regrets, grief, fears, dreams, and secrets that rarely make it into everyday conversation. It leaves you wondering just how much you don’t know about the people sitting across the dinner table from you. That’s a powerful takeaway. I just wish getting there hadn’t felt like hiking through waist-high weeds.
I know this book has connected deeply with a lot of readers, and I completely understand why. If you love literary fiction that focuses on people rather than plot – and you don’t mind writing that wanders wherever the thoughts happen to go – you may absolutely love this one. For me, though, the writing kept getting in the way of the story. Sometimes beautiful ideas deserve clearer sentences.
My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
This low rating isn’t because I disagreed with the author’s message. In fact, I think the central idea is one worth thinking about long after the book is over. Ironically, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. But a meaningful message can only carry a book so far. I need the writing to pull me into the story – not make me work to untangle it. “The Things We Never Say” gave me plenty to think about, but it never gave me the kind of reading experience that made me want to keep turning the pages.
Have you read this book? Tell me your take-away in a comment below.
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