Stats
Date Read: 13 Aug - 3 Sep
Pages: 720
Format Read: Paperback (Owned)
Genres: Contemporary
My Rating(out of 5): 4 Stars
Quotes
Why wasn’t friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn’t it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but only by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified.
What he knew, he knew from books, and books lied, they made things prettier.
You won’t understand what I mean now, but someday you will: the only trick of friendship, I think, is to find people who are better than you are—not smarter, not cooler, but kinder, and more generous, and more forgiving—and then to appreciate them for what they can teach you, and to try to listen to them when they tell you something about yourself, no matter how bad—or good—it might be, and to trust them, which is the hardest thing of all. But the best, as well.
If I were a different kind of person, I might say that this whole incident is a metaphor for life in general: things get broken, and sometimes they get repaired, and in most cases, you realize that no matter what gets damaged, life rearranges itself to compensate for your loss, sometimes wonderfully.
Review
I originally wanted to finish reading this book in Singapore before I flew. Then I didn’t, so I told myself: whatever, I’ll just finish it on the plane. Then I didn’t, so I told myself: whatever, I’ll just finish it in a day after I land. Then I didn’t. It took me a whole week to complete the last fifty pages of the book because I barely had time to sit down and read (and write) with all that was going on with a new city, orientation, classes, etc. (more on all that in a separate piece… soon, I hope). But I’m finally done reading, and finally got around to starting to write again! Hopefully this helps me start getting back on track.
This is an absolute monster of a novel. I mean... 720 pages… really? The Goldfinch vibes. Why are all the tragic modern novels set in New York so long? I just wanted to prepare myself through fiction, not spend 3 weeks struggling to get through each book.
Contrary to its title, A Little Life is in no way a story about a little life. It’s primarily the story of the life of lawyer Jude St. Francis, and that story is as if someone took all the worst things that happened to people in a group of thousands and piled it into a singular life. It’s not just about him though. The pages are shared almost equally between Jude and his three college roommates: Willem Ragnarsson, Malcolm Irvine, and Jean Baptiste Marion; an actor, an architect, and an artist. The main character, though, is undoubtedly Jude, and the main plotline is how the evils he’s endured in his youth continue to plague him throughout his life, even through all his successes.
The novel starts out with the four of them out of grad school and freshly moved to New York City, full of energy and ready to chase their dreams no matter how (seemingly) impractical. It mostly progresses linearly through the years till all of them are middle aged, though there are also frequent flashbacks into both their college years and into Jude’s traumatic childhood.
Before I write down any of my other thoughts, though, I think it’s of utmost importance for me to say that this is by far the most messed up work of fiction I’ve read (at least, that I can remember). It’s essentially a walking trigger warning. There’s mentions of sexual and physical abuse, self-harm, emotional instability, suicidal thoughts, everything in the book and then some. If they were just mentions it wouldn’t be that terrible, but these themes aren’t just mentioned in passing. They’re dug into, described in extreme graphic detail. It’s basically gratuitous trauma porn.
There were too many times where I just couldn’t continue reading and had to put down the book because the descriptions were just too terrible. At no point did I even get the chance to think “Oh, it’s finally stopping, nothing bad’s going to happen or be revealed”, because the miseries just kept piling up. And was it necessary? I guess the point of reading is to gain awareness of vastly different perspectives and build empathy, so maybe it was to open readers’ eyes to the horrible things that may happen in childhood that stay with us forever? I’m not sure. To put it in a more neutral light, the story is a super emotional and heartbreaking one. It’ll make you feel so, so strongly, and sympathise so deeply.
Thus, I know alarm bells will start ringing in your head when I say that I found the book relatable. But wait, hear me out. Despite all the trauma and tragedy, there were still constant shining lights of friendship, love, and moments of beauty in the midst of all the darkness. In particular, I loved the central story of the four college roommates all taking their own paths through life yet staying lifelong friends. All the friendships and familial bonds Jude formed in adulthood were great and super heartwarming too. But the killer piece of evidence isn’t any of those deep themes — rather, it’s because the main character’s name is Jude (my middle name), and the book’s set in New York City (where I am). So, I’m definitely romanticising many aspects of the book, projecting the (positive) adventures in the novel onto myself.
On the stylistic side, I really adored the writing. It flowed super well, and my comparisons to The Goldfinch weren’t solely because of the setting, but also because the writing styles felt similar: poetic, where singular lines meandered stretched into paragraphs and you barely notice. Where the words are beautiful, almost magical, yet not too complicated and foreign.
“Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way.
“You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it.
“You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again.
“You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”
Yes, I struggled to get through the book and finish it. But I still rate it highly, because I’m biased. I feel so happy now being able to recognise the places and streets sprinkled throughout the book. I long to visit and do them all, to walk the path Jude took on his Sunday walks, to eat shitty Vietnamese food with friends, to share a small (but good enough) apartment with lifelong friends. And I have this work of fiction to thank for adding some more magic and lore to the city I’m privileged to be at now.