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| Hanya Yanagihara |
I could not handle the intense viscero-somatic reaction elicited from this harrowingly depressing novel. All suffering was blown up to a cosmic proportion, everything on a brighter side was permanently tainted with the sickest shade of abuse, loathing, and self-destruction. Extremism shoved this novel forward: everybody was either the perverted devil incarnation himself or Mother Teresa with a perpetual savior-complex and the holy patience of a thousand gods. The folks who did not fully fit those categories scrambled around in absolute bewilderment of whatever the bloody hell happened to Jude, the main character, whom was such a malignant magnet for evil that thoroughly nullified even the most restorative forces of love.
I made the mistake of choosing this book for my bedtime reading, which repeatedly jolted me wide awake with damning disbelief and a distressing need to stand under a hot shower scrubbing myself vigorously with antiseptic soaps for hours. Hanya Yanagihara was a true voyeuristic sadist who masterfully juxtaposed elegance and depravity in her plot and characterization. However, dooming the folks having same sex relations is rather exploitative, no? Additionally, I can empathize with the needs to fix the damaged souls, but I also wanted to scream at a lot of people in this book that they ain’t no miracle workers, so please, let nature run its inevitable course.
Have you ever heard of the Japanese arts of mending broken goods with gold to embrace its imperfection? Hanya did not, and she was ruthless about it: she smashed her characters, sprinkled gold dust on it without really mending anything, then she crushed the shards and defecated on everything while giving two bold middle fingers to everybody hoping for a better outcome.
I wanted to throw a huge tantrum, but I won’t, because I almost loved this book as much as I hated it.
Life is complicated.
