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, startling and horrifying brutalisations of the human body. JB’s painting’s, Malcolm’s miniatures - and the real buildings they are based on - Willem’s film posters, Jude’s body. Yanagihara’s narrative forms itself around these objects, and I, for the first three, am eager to see them fully realised in front of me. 

It is, as so many have already claimed, a masterful book. One that I am so glad to have read. 

This book comes with so many warnings - rightfully so - that I felt prepared going into it. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was the joy within it’s pages. I wasn’t expecting Willem. I wasn’t expecting Harold. I was so frightened that Yanagihara’s writing would be brilliant but impenetrable, so I was thrilled to realise that, when I decided to dive into this book on my week off from work, that I read the first fifty pages without even meaning to. There is something deeply lovely about this book. Obviously, the content, Jude’s life, is not, but Yanagihara works to craft such deeply beautiful additions that I had no idea existed through the social contention that surrounds this novel. Harold, Willem, Malcolm, JB, Ana, Andy, Richard; if you’ve not read the book, most of these names won’t be familiar to you, I certainly wasn’t expecting them. But it is the love that is contained within the pages that makes this book work. I don’t mean to diminish the suffering that exists, only to stress that this book isn’t only suffering. 

If you have the capability to read this book, I deeply encourage you too.