![]() January is proving to be a very bleak month.- Sophie Robinson January 16, 2016 Snape died, Bowie died, my boiler broke and I'm in the final chapters of A Little Life. The story narrows its focus on Jude: broken, full of secrets, self-harming, slicing his calves and arms at 2am, his body a web of scar tissue. They are all, improbably, incredibly successful: JB in the art world, Malcolm as a “starchitect”, Willem as an actor and Jude as a litigator. Set in the present, A Little Life is about four young men – friends from the same college – who move to New York to chase big careers. According to Jon Michaud in the New Yorker: “Yanagihara’s novel can also drive you mad, consume you and take over your life.” He’s right: the big book of our Australian summer is as bleak and addictive as they come. My friend Tom texted, “Horrendous but there are 150+ pages of bad stuff,” and then, a week later, “I am still thinking about the book.” On Facebook, one friend told me, “IT IS SLAYING ME,” and another suggested a support group. Ever since Christmas – when the novel’s prevalence on year-end lists guaranteed its spot among my friends as a gloomy, dauntingly large stocking filler – the messages have been rolling in. ![]()
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