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A Little Life: A Novel Kindle Edition

by Hanya Yanagihara (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

4.5 72,215 ratings

Goodreads Choice Award nominee

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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A stunning “portrait of the enduring grace of friendship” (NPR) about the families we are born into, and those that we make for ourselves. A masterful depiction of love in the twenty-first century.

NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST • MAN BOOKER PRIZE FINALIST • WINNER OF THE KIRKUS PRIZE

A Little Life follows four college classmates—broke, adrift, and buoyed only by their friendship and ambition—as they move to New York in search of fame and fortune. While their relationships, which are tinged by addiction, success, and pride, deepen over the decades, the men are held together by their devotion to the brilliant, enigmatic Jude, a man scarred by an unspeakable childhood trauma. A hymn to brotherly bonds and a masterful depiction of love in the twenty-first century, Hanya Yanagihara’s stunning novel is about the families we are born into, and those that we make for ourselves.

Look for Hanya Yanagihara’slatest bestselling novel, To Paradise.

Editorial Reviews

Review

NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST • MAN BOOKER PRIZE FINALIST • WINNER OF THE KIRKUS PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The New York Times • The Washington Post • The Wall Street Journal • NPR • Vanity Fair • Vogue • Minneapolis Star Tribune • St. Louis Post-Dispatch • The Guardian • O, The Oprah Magazine • Slate • Newsday • Buzzfeed • The Economist • Newsweek • People • Kansas City Star • Shelf Awareness • Time Out New York • Huffington Post • Book Riot • Refinery29 • Bookpage • Publishers Weekly • Kirkus

“Astonishing.” —The Atlantic

“Deeply moving. . . . A wrenching portrait of the enduring grace of friendship.” —NPR

“Elemental, irreducible.” —The New Yorker

“Hypnotic. . . . An intimate, operatic friendship between four men.” —The Economist

“Capacious and consuming. . . . Immersive.” —The Boston Globe

“Beautiful.” —Los Angeles Times

“Exquisite. . . . It’s not hyperbole to call this novel a masterwork—if anything that word is simply just too little for it.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“Remarkable. . . . An epic study of trauma and friendship written with such intelligence and depth of perception that it will be one of the benchmarks against which all other novels that broach those subjects (and they are legion) will be measured. . . . A Little Life announces [Yanagihara] as a major American novelist.” —The Wall Street Journal

“Utterly gripping. Wonderfully romantic and sometimes harrowing, A Little Life kept me reading late into the night, night after night.” —Edmund White

“Spellbinding . . . . An exquisitely written, complex triumph.” —O, The Oprah Magazine

“Drawn in extraordinary detail by incantatory prose. . . . Affecting and transcendent.” —The Washington Post

“[A Little Life] lands with a real sense of occasion: the arrival of a major new voice in fiction. . . . Yanagihara’s achievement has less to do with size . . . than with the breadth and depth of its considerable power, which speaks not to the indomitability of the spirit, but to the fragility of the self.” —Vogue

“Exquisite. . . . The book shifts from a generational portrait to something darker and more tender: an examination of the depths of human cruelty, counterbalanced by the restorative powers of friendship.” —The New Yorker

“A book unlike any other. . . . A Little Life asks serious questions about humanism and euthanasia and psychiatry and any number of the partis pris of modern western life. . . . A devastating read that will leave your heart, like the Grinch’s, a few sizes larger.” —The Guardian

“Exceedingly good.” —Newsweek

“A Little Life is unlike anything else out there. Over the top, beyond the pale and quite simply unforgettable.” —The Independent

“Piercing. . . . [Yanagihara is] an author with the talent to interrogate the basest and most beautiful extremes of human behaviour with sustained, bruising intensity.” —The Times Literary Supplement

“A brave novel. . . . Impressive and moving.” —Literary Review

“Enthralling and completely immersive. . . . Stunning.” —Daily News

About the Author

HANYA YANAGIHARA lives in New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

The eleventh apartment had only one closet, but it did have a sliding glass door that opened onto a small balcony, from which he could see a man sitting across the way, outdoors in only a T-shirt and shorts even though it was October, smoking. Willem held up a hand in greeting to him, but the man didn’t wave back.

In the bedroom, Jude was accordioning the closet door, opening and shutting it, when Willem came in. “There’s only one closet,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Willem said. “I have nothing to put in it anyway.”

“Neither do I.” They smiled at each other. The agent from the building wandered in after them. “We’ll take it,” Jude told her.

But back at the agent’s office, they were told they couldn’t rent the apartment after all. “Why not?” Jude asked her.

“You don’t make enough to cover six months’ rent, and you don’t have anything in savings,” said the agent, suddenly terse. She had checked their credit and their bank accounts and had at last realized that there was something amiss about two men in their twenties who were not a couple and yet were trying to rent a one-bedroom apartment on a dull (but still expensive) stretch of Twenty-fifth Street. “Do you have anyone who can sign on as your guarantor? A boss? Parents?”

“Our parents are dead,” said Willem, swiftly.

The agent sighed. “Then I suggest you lower your expectations. No one who manages a well-run building is going to rent to candidates with your financial profile.” And then she stood, with an air of finality, and looked pointedly at the door.

When they told JB and Malcolm this, however, they made it into a comedy: the apartment floor became tattooed with mouse droppings, the man across the way had almost exposed himself, the agent was upset because she had been flirting with Willem and he hadn’t reciprocated.

“Who wants to live on Twenty-fifth and Second anyway,” asked JB. They were at Pho Viet Huong in Chinatown, where they met twice a month for dinner. Pho Viet Huong wasn’t very good--the pho was curiously sugary, the lime juice was soapy, and at least one of them got sick after every meal--but they kept coming, both out of habit and necessity. You could get a bowl of soup or a sandwich at Pho Viet Huong for five dollars, or you could get an entrée, which were eight to ten dollars but much larger, so you could save half of it for the next day or for a snack later that night. Only Malcolm never ate the whole of his entrée and never saved the other half either, and when he was finished eating, he put his plate in the center of the table so Willem and JB--who were always hungry--could eat the rest.

“Of course we don’t want to live at Twenty-fifth and Second, JB,” said Willem, patiently, “but we don’t really have a choice. We don’t have any money, remember?”

“I don’t understand why you don’t stay where you are,” said Malcolm, who was now pushing his mushrooms and tofu--he always ordered the same dish: oyster mushrooms and braised tofu in a treacly brown sauce--around his plate, as Willem and JB eyed it.

“Well, I can’t,” Willem said. “Remember?” He had to have explained this to Malcolm a dozen times in the last three months. “Merritt’s boyfriend’s moving in, so I have to move out.”

“But why do you have to move out?”

“Because it’s Merritt’s name on the lease, Malcolm!” said JB.

“Oh,” Malcolm said. He was quiet. He often forgot what he considered inconsequential details, but he also never seemed to mind when people grew impatient with him for forgetting. “Right.” He moved the mushrooms to the center of the table. “But you, Jude--”

“I can’t stay at your place forever, Malcolm. Your parents are going to kill me at some point.”

“My parents love you.”

“That’s nice of you to say. But they won’t if I don’t move out, and soon.”

Malcolm was the only one of the four of them who lived at home, and as JB liked to say, if he had Malcolm’s home, he would live at home too. It wasn’t as if Malcolm’s house was particularly grand--it was, in fact, creaky and ill-kept, and Willem had once gotten a splinter simply by running his hand up its banister--but it was large: a real Upper East Side town house. Malcolm’s sister, Flora, who was three years older than him, had moved out of the basement apartment recently, and Jude had taken her place as a short-term solution: Eventually, Malcolm’s parents would want to reclaim the unit to convert it into offices for his mother’s literary agency, which meant Jude (who was finding the flight of stairs that led down to it too difficult to navigate anyway) had to look for his own apartment.

And it was natural that he would live with Willem; they had been roommates throughout college. In their first year, the four of them had shared a space that consisted of a cinder-blocked common room, where sat their desks and chairs and a couch that JB’s aunts had driven up in a U-Haul, and a second, far tinier room, in which two sets of bunk beds had been placed. This room had been so narrow that Malcolm and Jude, lying in the bottom bunks, could reach out and grab each other’s hands. Malcolm and JB had shared one of the units; Jude and Willem had shared the other.

“It’s blacks versus whites,” JB would say.

“Jude’s not white,” Willem would respond.

“And I’m not black,” Malcolm would add, more to annoy JB than because he believed it.

“Well,” JB said now, pulling the plate of mushrooms toward him with the tines of his fork, “I’d say you could both stay with me, but I think you’d fucking hate it.” JB lived in a massive, filthy loft in Little Italy, full of strange hallways that led to unused, oddly shaped cul-de-sacs and unfinished half rooms, the Sheetrock abandoned mid-construction, which belonged to another person they knew from college. Ezra was an artist, a bad one, but he didn’t need to be good because, as JB liked to remind them, he would never have to work in his entire life. And not only would he never have to work, but his children’s children’s children would never have to work: They could make bad, unsalable, worthless art for generations and they would still be able to buy at whim the best oils they wanted, and impractically large lofts in downtown Manhattan that they could trash with their bad architectural decisions, and when they got sick of the artist’s life--as JB was convinced Ezra someday would--all they would need to do is call their trust officers and be awarded an enormous lump sum of cash of an amount that the four of them (well, maybe not Malcolm) could never dream of seeing in their lifetimes. In the meantime, though, Ezra was a useful person to know, not only because he let JB and a few of his other friends from school stay in his apartment--at any time, there were four or five people burrowing in various corners of the loft--but because he was a good-natured and basically generous person, and liked to throw excessive parties in which copious amounts of food and drugs and alcohol were available for free.

“Hold up,” JB said, putting his chopsticks down. “I just realized--there’s someone at the magazine renting some place for her aunt. Like, just on the verge of Chinatown.”

“How much is it?” asked Willem.

“Probably nothing--she didn’t even know what to ask for it. And she wants someone in there that she knows.”

“Do you think you could put in a good word?”

“Better--I’ll introduce you. Can you come by the office tomorrow?”

Jude sighed. “I won’t be able to get away.” He looked at Willem.

“Don’t worry--I can. What time?”

“Lunchtime, I guess. One?”

“I’ll be there.”

Willem was still hungry, but he let JB eat the rest of the mushrooms. Then they all waited around for a bit; sometimes Malcolm ordered jackfruit ice cream, the one consistently good thing on the menu, ate two bites, and then stopped, and he and JB would finish the rest. But this time he didn’t order the ice cream, and so they asked for the bill so they could study it and divide it to the dollar.

The next day, Willem met JB at his office. JB worked as a receptionist at a small but influential magazine based in SoHo that covered the downtown art scene. This was a strategic job for him; his plan, as he’d explained to Willem one night, was that he’d try to befriend one of the editors there and then convince him to feature him in the magazine. He estimated this taking about six months, which meant he had three more to go.

JB wore a perpetual expression of mild disbelief while at his job, both that he should be working at all and that no one had yet thought to recognize his special genius. He was not a good receptionist. Although the phones rang more or less constantly, he rarely picked them up; when any of them wanted to get through to him (the cell phone reception in the building was inconsistent), they had to follow a special code of ringing twice, hanging up, and then ringing again. And even then he sometimes failed to answer--his hands were busy beneath his desk, combing and plaiting snarls of hair from a black plastic trash bag he kept at his feet.

JB was going through, as he put it, his hair phase. Recently he had decided to take a break from painting in favor of making sculptures from black hair. Each of them had spent an exhausting weekend following JB from barbershop to beauty shop in Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Manhattan, waiting outside as JB went in to ask the owners for any sweepings or cuttings they might have, and then lugging an increasingly awkward bag of hair down the street after him. His early pieces had included The Mace, a tennis ball that he had de-fuzzed, sliced in half, and filled with sand before coating it in glue and rolling it around and around in a carpet of hair so that the bristles moved like seaweed underwater, and “The Kwotidien,” in which he covered various household items--a stapler; a spatula; a teacup--in pelts of hair. Now he was working on a large-scale project that he refused to discuss with them except in snatches, but it involved the combing out and braiding together of many pieces in order to make one apparently endless rope of frizzing black hair. The previous Friday he had lured them over with the promise of pizza and beer to help him braid, but after many hours of tedious work, it became clear that there was no pizza and beer forthcoming, and they had left, a little irritated but not terribly surprised.

They were all bored with the hair project, although Jude--alone among them--thought that the pieces were lovely and would someday be considered significant. In thanks, JB had given Jude a hair-covered hairbrush, but then had reclaimed the gift when it looked like Ezra’s father’s friend might be interested in buying it (he didn’t, but JB never returned the hairbrush to Jude). The hair project had proved difficult in other ways as well; another evening, when the three of them had somehow been once again conned into going to Little Italy and combing out more hair, Malcolm had commented that the hair stank. Which it did: not of anything distasteful but simply the tangy metallic scent of unwashed scalp. But JB had thrown one of his mounting tantrums, and had called Malcolm a self-hating Negro and an Uncle Tom and a traitor to the race, and Malcolm, who very rarely angered but who angered over accusations like this, had dumped his wine into the nearest bag of hair and gotten up and stamped out. Jude had hurried, the best he could, after Malcolm, and Willem had stayed to handle JB. And although the two of them reconciled the next day, in the end Willem and Jude felt (unfairly, they knew) slightly angrier at Malcolm, since the next weekend they were back in Queens, walking from barbershop to barbershop, trying to replace the bag of hair that he had ruined.

“How’s life on the black planet?” Willem asked JB now.

“Black,” said JB, stuffing the plait he was untangling back into the bag. “Let’s go; I told Annika we’d be there at one thirty.” The phone on his desk began to ring.

“Don’t you want to get that?”

“They’ll call back.”

As they walked downtown, JB complained. So far, he had concentrated most of his seductive energies on a senior editor named Dean, whom they all called DeeAnn. They had been at a party, the three of them, held at one of the junior editor’s parents’ apartment in the Dakota, in which art-hung room bled into art-hung room. As JB talked with his coworkers in the kitchen, Malcolm and Willem had walked through the apartment together (Where had Jude been that night? Working, probably), looking at a series of Edward Burtynskys hanging in the guest bedroom, a suite of water towers by the Bechers mounted in four rows of five over the desk in the den, an enormous Gursky floating above the half bookcases in the library, and, in the master bedroom, an entire wall of Diane Arbuses, covering the space so thoroughly that only a few centimeters of blank wall remained at the top and bottom. They had been admiring a picture of two sweet-faced girls with Down syndrome playing for the camera in their too-tight, too-childish bathing suits, when Dean had approached them. He was a tall man, but he had a small, gophery, pockmarked face that made him appear feral and untrustworthy.

They introduced themselves, explained that they were here because they were JB’s friends. Dean told them that he was one of the senior editors at the magazine, and that he handled all the arts coverage.

“Ah,” Willem said, careful not to look at Malcolm, whom he did not trust not to react. JB had told them that he had targeted the arts editor as his potential mark; this must be him.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Dean asked them, waving a hand at the Arbuses.

“Never,” Willem said. “I love Diane Arbus.”

Dean stiffened, and his little features seemed to gather themselves into a knot in the center of his little face. “It’s DeeAnn.”

“What?”

“DeeAnn. You pronounce her name ‘DeeAnn.’ ”

They had barely been able to get out of the room without laughing. “DeeAnn!” JB had said later, when they told him the story. “Christ! What a pretentious little shit.”

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B00N6PCZO0
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Anchor (March 10, 2015)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ March 10, 2015
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 3353 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
Print length ‏ : ‎ 737 pages

Best Sellers Rank: #1,872 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #3 in Literary Sagas
- #11 in Asian American Literature & Fiction
- #19 in Contemporary Literary Fiction

Customer Reviews:
4.5 72,215 ratings

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Hanya Yanagihara

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Hanya Yanagihara lives in New York City.

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JenP

a beautifully written book about love, friendship, and the long-term impact of childhood abuse.

Reviewed in the United States on October 8, 2015

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A Little Life follows four college friends as they navigate careers, love, friendship and life and death. At the center of the four friends is Jude, a mysterious young man who suffers from severe leg and back pain and whose body is covered in scars. Jude shares little about his own life and his three friends -- Malcom, Wilhem, & JB -- know better than to ask him about his childhood. The book alternates perspectives throughout, although Jude remains central. As the novel progresses, the story of Jude's past slowly unfolds to reveal a history of abuse and unspeakable trauma.

I LOVED this book. At 700+ pages it was an emotionally challenging read that takes hold of you from page one and puts you through the wringer. I cried. A LOT. And, I'm not much of a cryer. Yanagihara makes you fall in love with the characters then makes you suffer as they make some horrible decisions, try to reconcile their past, and struggle to find love and self-worth. Jude is portrayed with an emotional sensitivity that I found surprising. Yanagihara gives readers a real sense of how trauma can impact both the victim and his social circle. As a psychologist, I often find myself irritated by portrayals of mental illness in books, but here I found myself amazed at how well the author portrayed a difficult personality profile whose frustrating actions do not take away from the love you feel for him.

It can be a difficult read since there is a lot of disturbing content including multiple forms of abuse. At times, I felt like the author was going a little too far in piling on the abuse history. So many horrific things happened to one of the characters that it bordered on sensationalist and took away from some of the realism of the book. The content isn't particularly graphic since much of it is left to the imagination, but it is nevertheless heart-wrenching. But while the history of abuse is prominent, the book isn't about abuse. It's about relationships and some of them are so beautiful that their warmth makes you cry from the happy moments.

The writing is truly fantastic. Even mundane events are made to shine and descriptions very subtly shift based on which character perspective we are reading. For example, take this passage from one of JB's chapter:

The other aspect of those weekday-evening trips he loved was the light itself, how it filled the train like something living as the cars rattled across the bridge, how it washed the weariness from his seat mates' faces and revealed them as they were when they first came to the country, when they were young and America seemed conquerable. He'd watch that kind light suffuse the car like syrup, watch it smudge furrows from foreheads, slick gray hears into gold, gentle the aggressive shine from cheap fabrics into something lustrous and fine. And then the sun would drift, the car rattling uncaringly away from it, and the world would return to its normal sad shapes and colors, the people to their normal sad state, a shift as cruel and abrupt as if it had been made by a sorcerer's wand.

JB, is an artist, thus his observations are seen through the eyes of an artist. Other characters focus on different aspects that are relevant to their own important identities. Picking up on these subtleties makes this book that much more special.

Other favorite quotes:

You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not "I love him" but "How is he?" The world overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies - you know, those little white ones- I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield.

Friendship was witnessing another’s slow drip of miseries, and long bouts of boredom, and occasional triumphs. It was feeling honored by the privilege of getting to be present for another person’s most dismal moments, and knowing that you could be dismal around him in return.

Will you like this book? Here are my pros and cons for the book:

Pros: stellar writing, rich character development, diverse characters (in terms of racial background and sexual orientation), emotionally evocative. Sensitive portrayal of the long term impacts of trauma. I also liked that the book showed a different angle of abuse - how someone so seemingly successful and well-loved can be hiding great pain underneath the surface.

Cons: at times bordering on sensationalist. Yanigahara goes too far in her piling on of abuse after abuse. Yes, there are individuals who experience multiple traumas but it gets to a point where it's a little much. I didn't think that was needed to make her point about the long-term impacts of childhood trauma on the lives of individuals. Feels emotionally manipulative at several times.

37 people found this helpful

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Booksalottle

4.75-Stars: Excruciating and Diabolical, but Masterfully Written

Reviewed in the United States on May 17, 2019

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I finished Hanya Yanagihara's emotionally draining, 'A Little Life', over three months ago and in the time since, I felt I needed to recover from her roller coaster of a novel. Imagine though a roller coaster that is on fire, but has classical music playing on its back row as it dips and ascends into screaming terror and melancholic euphoria.

Upon completing this novel, I was fatigued, drained, and spent of my emotions because I have never equally hated and admired a book so much in my literary life. On two occasions while reading, I took a shot of tequila to get through particular sections. Sections where when the tequila did not help, I put the book down because the book's content read like being hit by a Mack truck at full speed. Nothing in this novel is subtle, as a matter of fact, I equate reading it to a jackhammer puncturing hard-baked cement and you the reader is the cement. The storytelling is piercing, with plangent themes that gutted my insides, and it is so visceral that it ostensibly paints Yanagihara to be a sadistic fiend for unleashing a literary work such as this. She's of course not, she's simply a good writer who knows how to bring a heartbreaking story to life.

Yes, 'A Little Life' is an agonizing read, but one that was masterfully written, offering all manner of literary rewards. Employing use of a dense, particularized writing style, Yanagihara's prose is architectural, cerebral, and drawn out at a pace that is like molasses rolling up a sand dusted hill. From page one, I found the four protagonists to be engaging, but forebodingly so, where I immediately knew that there will be a lot to unpack in the subsequent pages ahead. Though the novel's setting is contemporary, Yanagihara tells it in an odd but effective flashback mixed with present day style where the context of time is always abstract. Specific dates or years are never used, instead we get descriptors such as "nine years ago," "on his fifth birthday," "four years after..." This approach bothered me initially, because it made some of the flashback scenes less textural. But Yanagihara is such a good writer, she made the technique work, as it became tolerable as I read on. Again, nothing in this novel is subtle or plain, but despite the elaborately detailed descriptions, which I admired, the novel is readable. Although, I think some readers may find it to be plodding.

For me, I think one of Yanagihara's strength as a writer is her ability to flesh out characters as if they were filigree, branching them out far and wide, but characters that have a centered, yet deeply flawed souls. As well written as each of the characterizations are here, I admit that I dislike every one of them. The four protagonists - Jude, Willem, Jean-Baptist, and Malcolm, plus two major secondary ones, Andy, and Harold - all made my emotions seesaw from vexation to sympathy, but mostly vexation. Jude, the center of the novel's story, is especially maddening. He is a self imposed martyr, at times grating, and is in constant need of attention, attention that is wanted or not. Yet, I couldn't help but be heartbroken for him due to his disquieting childhood and unenviable lot in life.

Another source of frustration was that 'A Little Life' has in my opinion, an uncomfortable air of incestuous camaraderie between the six protagonists, a bothersome co-dependency that drove me up the wall. Everyone in Jude's life - Willem, Jean-Baptist, Malcolm, Andy, and Harold, individually and collectively coddle him to such an extant that it borders on criminal. I was bothered that each of these characters allowed their hubris and selfishness to take precedence over the necessary tough love that Jude needed. The enabling and coddling became reductive, and peeved me so badly that I yelled out at my book several times. Still, despite my irritation at the imbecilic actions of the characters, I couldn't help but regress into pity and gut-wrenching grief for each of their lives. Eventually, my dislike of the characters became irrelevant, as I don't think characters have to be likable in order to be effective. At any given time, I was mad at each of them, but in their frustrating behavior, they made me think long and hard about human frailty.

Despite my frustrations, and even at 720 densely packed pages, 'A Little Life' is a worthy read. Make no mistake, as it did me, this is a novel that will peel your insides and likely wreck you. There were moments where I could only read certain chapters in short spurts, with breaks between paragraphs because the content is so unsettling. Nevertheless, I read it all, because even though this is a fictional story, I can't help but think that it is the life that some unfortunate souls have lived, and or are living right now.

I highly recommend 'A Little Life', but again be warned, the content is visceral, EXCRUCIATING, and unrelenting. The depravity and evil that Yanagihara has showcased in these pages is unreal, and is unlike any I've ever read. As you progress though the novel, prepare yourself before reading pages 323-340, 392-403, 417-423. The entire book is not easy to get through, but these pages are especially ungodly. I don't care who you are or how strong you are, I think this book is one that will wreck most. I give it 4.75 stars out of 5 for the writing, the themes, and the fleshed out characterizations, even though the novel as a whole is positively diabolical.

317 people found this helpful

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John Nalleweg

Beautifully written but a painful read

Reviewed in Canada on March 22, 2024

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The story centres on a young man who was badly abused, mentally, physically, and sexually as a boy. He is obviously gifted and manages to become a highly regarded corporate lawyer. We follow his life into adulthood and see how his world is shaped by his past. It is intense.

One person found this helpful

Nidia

Hermoso

Reviewed in Mexico on February 14, 2024

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El libro es de muy buena calidad y muy lindo. Tiene una hoja metálica, muy padre. Llegó en perfecto estado.

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Thiago Sardenberg

Uma vida gigante

Reviewed in Brazil on September 30, 2022

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Encontro quase que difícil escrever uma pequena resenha de Uma Vida Pequena (que, de pequeno, realmente não tem nada - é tanto um livro grande quanto um grande livro!) pois, pra mim, foi um daqueles textos que se desdobraram por caminhos tão múltiplos que, aqui, me cabe apenas jogar luz sobre um ou outro aspecto que realmente chamaram minha atenção.

É sabido que esse livro lida minuciosamente com as repercussões duradouras de um número catastrófico de abusos físicos e psicológicos sofridos pelo personagem principal durante anos, por diferentes pessoas (quase que implorando ao leitor que suspenda a descrença na plausibilidade desses eventos tão seguidos). Vejo que muitos comentários se atêm, e não sem razão, a esse aspecto, que cria raízes invisíveis pelo texto e está presente mesmo quando não é discutido.

Entretanto, entendo que o trunfo de Uma Vida Pequena reside em outro lugar, para além das angústias e traumas da vida. É por meio das relações tão particulares (complexas e incrivelmente sinceras) estabelecidas entre um grupo de amigos tentando construir suas vidas e relacionamentos afetivos por seus próprios termos, independente das muitas expectativas sociais às quais todos nós somos constantemente submetidos (Por que estás solteiro? Por que não se casam? Por que não têm filhos? Por que essa carreira, e não essa outra? etc) que o livro encontra sua âncora, sua humanidade, em meio às muitas tormentas que cria.

Sem dúvidas, eles habitarão por muito tempo minha mente - assim como levarei comigo muitas das reflexões que o livro provoca.

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Lore

Really Nice book

Reviewed in Italy on April 23, 2024

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Complicated but worth the reading

MiaMinardi

Good book for an adult who is interested in the socialogical (stigmatized) mental health topics

Reviewed in Sweden on April 22, 2024

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I am not a reader but this book piqued my interest because I am interested in psychology and psychiatry as a small hobby. I like the characters and the rich descriptions of how their lives affect each other (like how important friends or sometimes family are for your well-being). It feels very real in a way, so I think the writer has a deep understanding of what it writes about. I still haven't read the ending, because I am busy for the moment- but I find it unbelievable that the ending will make the entire book bad (because the writer has at least for me shown a complexity in their way of portraying a complicated and in-depth story). Even if it has a sort of tragic ending, like Romeo and Juliet- I still just think that adult readers need to understand that not all people's life ends like a fairy tale (especially if its characters have long-term mental health struggles). If that's the only thing that makes you dislike the book.

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