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The Years They Pass Like Summer Dew Upon the Grass

By Angela Hallstrom

I recently finished a really lovely book–Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. It’s a novel-in-stories—and yes, I’m partial to novels-in-stories—and as I was reading I kept finding myself thinking, “Daaaaaang, I wish I could write like Elizabeth Strout.”

But this post isn’t about my own author jealousy, or Elizabeth Strout’s prodigious talents, or even the merits of Olive Kitteridge. (Although you should read it—but there is some language, and it’s kinda sad in a weirdly hopeful way, and some of you might be bugged by the fact that it’s not a traditional novel and has all those annoying short stories in it—but if you’re okay with all of that, read it! And if you’re not okay with it, you don’t have to read it . . . and that’s okay, too.)

No, this post is about a killer passage from the end of the novel, and how it got me thinking. Here it is:

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