A Little Life

So glad it’s finally over. And so glad to have read it.

The first third was sublime. Truly sublime. Yanagihara writes exquisitely, both in tone and style: tremendous compassion and intelligence; beautiful language; fascinating variations in narrative style. Over and over I felt overwhelmed by her sensitivity and awareness. At one point I commented to a friend that it was like reading the NOT LIKE THIS section of a communication self-help book: tiptoeing around delicate subjects, talking across each other, never really Listening. My tone was admiring: only someone with awareness could write such painful examples of the ways we try but fail to connect with others.

The “painful” theme is developed in the next third, to a degree I found perhaps excessive but that could just be my privilege speaking. The final third, unfortunately, I was desensitized and just slogging through: okay, more suffering; okay, valuable insights on human behavior and relationships; repeat.

An observation I made: the book does not pass the Bechdel test. Seven hundred pages, and no two female characters speak to one another. Another observation: no man could possibly have written this book. Few men have the emotional range. And that leads me to my main gripe about the book: the motivations didn’t work, didn’t feel real. The book is primarily about male friendships, but increasingly the dynamics felt inexplicable and rang false. This was fine in the first third, but ultimately weakened the structure. Lesser gripes: too-pat development of the main characters’ lives, and breezy dismissal of what I consider uncomfortable moral questions.

Highly recommended, but with reservations. And with a warning: have a box of tissues nearby.