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A review by tobin_elliott
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
Did not finish book. Stopped at 15%.
Yeah, so, I tried.
Seriously, this book MOVES at the bookstore. Everyone buys it. And I've had customers come back and say, "I want another book like A LITTLE LIFE! It's my favourite book of all time!"
And so, I thought it was time I figured out what all the fuss was about. Interestingly, I wasn't minding it. Actually got to the 10 % mark and wasn't finding it horrible. Also wasn't finding it anything great, but not horrible.
Around that time, a friend who follows me here mentioned that they had tried to read it, and ultimately, around the hundred-page mark or so, gave up. They described it as boring and pretentious, and a novel where nothing happens. I actually disagreed with that assessment at the time.
Well, then I got to Part Two, where Yanagihara decided to pretty much stop the slow crawl of the plot to go into things like Jude's upbringing and how much Mal's father loved him and on and on about different companies and bosses and tutoring, and there was also a long stretch about another character's studio space—sorry, I've forgotten which character and can't be bothered to even go and look it up—where we got to know far too much about each of the studio renters, what they did, what the character did, how he felt about the others, how he felt about his own work, and how he's essentially spinning his wheels until he took a chance photo. And there's something about an architect and how he's spinning his wheels designing houses already designed.
My point here is, this was the novel proving my friend right. This is turning into one of those literary novels where every characters' gaze is fixed firmly on their own navel and no one seems to do anything of consequence, beyond existing to spout the author's views on existence.
Or, to put another way...some books are like a guitarist playing a well-tuned guitar with skill. They make it sing.
Some books are like someone picking up the guitar for the first time and making a lot of noise, but there's no song, no talent there.
And some are like a guitarist making do with a guitar who's strings are so out of tune as to be literally hanging from the instrument. The guitarist can still strum their fingers over the strings, but it's just noise, not a song.
This book is becoming just noise, and I can't be bothered wading through another 700+ pages to discover it never picks up a tune. So, no rating, DNF.
It may be your favourite book, but it damn sure ain't mine.
Seriously, this book MOVES at the bookstore. Everyone buys it. And I've had customers come back and say, "I want another book like A LITTLE LIFE! It's my favourite book of all time!"
And so, I thought it was time I figured out what all the fuss was about. Interestingly, I wasn't minding it. Actually got to the 10 % mark and wasn't finding it horrible. Also wasn't finding it anything great, but not horrible.
Around that time, a friend who follows me here mentioned that they had tried to read it, and ultimately, around the hundred-page mark or so, gave up. They described it as boring and pretentious, and a novel where nothing happens. I actually disagreed with that assessment at the time.
Well, then I got to Part Two, where Yanagihara decided to pretty much stop the slow crawl of the plot to go into things like Jude's upbringing and how much Mal's father loved him and on and on about different companies and bosses and tutoring, and there was also a long stretch about another character's studio space—sorry, I've forgotten which character and can't be bothered to even go and look it up—where we got to know far too much about each of the studio renters, what they did, what the character did, how he felt about the others, how he felt about his own work, and how he's essentially spinning his wheels until he took a chance photo. And there's something about an architect and how he's spinning his wheels designing houses already designed.
My point here is, this was the novel proving my friend right. This is turning into one of those literary novels where every characters' gaze is fixed firmly on their own navel and no one seems to do anything of consequence, beyond existing to spout the author's views on existence.
Or, to put another way...some books are like a guitarist playing a well-tuned guitar with skill. They make it sing.
Some books are like someone picking up the guitar for the first time and making a lot of noise, but there's no song, no talent there.
And some are like a guitarist making do with a guitar who's strings are so out of tune as to be literally hanging from the instrument. The guitarist can still strum their fingers over the strings, but it's just noise, not a song.
This book is becoming just noise, and I can't be bothered wading through another 700+ pages to discover it never picks up a tune. So, no rating, DNF.
It may be your favourite book, but it damn sure ain't mine.