Joining the cult of Jude St. Francis, a review of A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
I had the distinct pleasure of reading this book and seeing two versions of it play out simultaneously in my head. Primarily, I saw this book as I see every other book that I read, it unfolds fully formed in my head as if I am living it. And then I would remember why I am reading it; because it is my friend’s favourite book and she bought us tickets for the play as soon as they went on sale. Each time I remembered that, I saw the words not as fodder for a hyper-naturalistic film but for a play, on a stage, with a set, with lighting, with pauses, with audience members - with myself - leaning forward to catch the dialogue as the lights dim, could hear the applause as I imagine scenes working as closing acts, could see exactly how the curtain would fall once I finally, tears streaming down my face, closed the book for the final time. It is an extremely visual story, focusing on so many tactile moments centred around physical objects or, and this is where the book gets its infamy, startl