Spoiler Alert: It’s really, really difficult to talk about this book without giving the whole thing away, so if you’re hoping to read it or are currently reading it, I’d suggest reading this post after you finish the novel.
That said, this book destroyed me. In the most inelegant, ugly cry-inducing manner, Hanya Yanagihara’s tour de force A Little Life absolutely obliterated my emotions. I found it in a Barnes & Noble, on a random trip, and thought it sounded interesting — not knowing that it was a Man Booker Prize Finalist (apparently I missed the fact that that was emblazoned on the cover) and that everyone from The Guardian to Queer Eye’s Antoni had been talking about it.
Yanagihara’s book follows four friends, Malcolm, JB, Willem, and Jude, as they make their way in the world, as recent college graduates and into their sixties. Jude St. Francis, simultaneously the most fragile and the most resilient of the four friends, acts as the glue that holds the bunch together, despite wide-ranging careers as litigators and artists. Despite his position as the central character, Jude’s past remains hidden for a large part of the novel. As the plot develops, readers find that his physical disabilities, struggles with cutting, and wary mistrust of others stem from a remarkably dark, violent history as a victim of repeated sexual abuse and slavery at the hands of various authority figures from his childhood. Jude continues to battle feelings of isolation, worthlessness, and self hatred, even into his adulthood, but is helped and partially healed by his dear friend (and eventual lover) Willem. Willem’s sudden death in a tragic car accident nearly destroys Jude as well, leaving him deeply distressed and unsure of his purpose, now, as a single man once again.
Critics and bloggers alike have noted the novel for its extreme bent towards graphic description and constant depictions of violence. I agree that the amount of violence and blood in the book is overwhelming, and required me to put down the book between paragraphs, just to remind myself that this was, indeed, fiction. Some critics have actually rejected the book as a show of cruel, cold authorial contempt, in which Yanagihara nearly flaunts her power as a creator by inflicting constant cruelty on Jude. But I think her approach is far more complex than that.
Her interviews convey her as more of a scientist than a sadist. She is interested in the long term effects of abuse on men and how it “takes away their sense of masculinity. And of course they are not equipped or encouraged to talk about it” (Guardian). Yet, she lacks a sense of compassion, arguing that “‘[she doesn’t] think fiction can stand in for therapy. [She thinks] they are still on their own with it’” (Guardian). Clearly, Yanagihara believes herself incapable of enacting any sort of magical healing or therapy for her readers, especially victims of sexual abuse. Her writing, then, seems to be a study of sexual abuse’s long term effects on Jude himself, a detached field report told in the third person, regarding the outcome of some sort of sick experiment on an innocent boy. Yanagihara never embodies the voice of Jude. Instead, she chooses to remain a third person omniscient narrator, who, in one sense, participates in Jude’s violation by relaying the most intimate, excruciating details of his tragic, difficult life without offering him the agency to tell his own story.
For as scientific and austere as Yangihara’s approach remains, the nature of her prose is remarkably, richly emotional. The sheer strength and detail of her descriptions of Jude’s wounds, his memories, and even his hallucinations of his lover, Willem, are so keenly sharp that it seems to evoke sorrow, not just sadness. She plays upon the essence of humanity — human love, companionship, and pain. There’s something so haunting, yet wholly human, about Jude’s longing to remember Willem through clothing, cologne, and even through starvation-induced hallucinations. Yanagihara’s scientific perspective on such an emotionally charged life points to the inextricable link between feeling and scientific observation. For the author, observation requires a serious consideration of feeling. The objectivity of Yanagihara’s experimentation with masculinity and trauma necessitates, and even facilitates, an in-depth discussion of emotion and subjective experience.
A Little Life is a stunning, stark representation of humanity, stripped to its barest of existences. Jude St. Francis’ life is utterly devoid of comfort and ease, despite his successes as a lawyer. The bleakness of his life allows readers to clearly see how he is shaped not only by the horrific circumstances and encounters of his past, but also by the beauty of companionship and unconditional love at the hands of Willem, Harold, and Julia. Yanagihara’s novel is dark and incredibly violent, but amongst the visceral imagery, readers are able to gain a clear picture of a struggling, but noteworthy life. The violence in this book is horrific, but sex slavery, cutting, betrayal, and fear are all very real to thousands, if not millions, of people across the world today. By relaying Jude’s story, A Little Life leaves readers with a taste of the trauma inflicted on him, and in doing so, leaves them with a greater responsibility to care diligently and compassionately for those around them, because everyone has a story, and stories are what draw us together.