Books like A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara are not easy to forget. They latch on to you as works of loneliness, conflict, and love. When you say that the basis of any culture, of any life, is what transcends into loving and being loved, this book is rather like what’s left behind.
All throughout the book, the main question that filled me with anxiety was not about the unrequited resilience of the story but about the possibilities of absolute love in an age when redeeming human identity is almost always never personal.
Everybody should read this book to understand the meaning of strength in the absence of feeling. Of pain in the presence of love.
In my personal opinion, parts of this book do feel stretched. The author’s way of writing has an emotive side that I adored but, at the same time, it overlapped at many turns which were unexpectedly repetitive.
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