Writers have struggled for centuries to portray characters whose life experiences differ from their own (wherein the adage “write what you know”). We as individuals are naturally limited in the stories we can tell, which is why we are even drawn to literature in the first place.
Stories breathe life into thousands of different characters, thousands of different adventures. Its role in building empathy in children and young adults has long been documented, which is why the way we represent characters has always been cause for controversy.
Yet it is only natural for writers to fall victim to certain tropes: the tortured artist, the forbidden lover. There is a treasure trove of literary examples from which to draw, making such tropes accessible to both writers as well as their intended readers. These tropes clearly allow us to stay within the confines of what we know.
But their simplicity, or reductiveness rather, is also what makes them dangerous. In the best case scenario, they are a substitute for complex character building, a C attempt at storytelling. In the worst, they can reinforce tired (and often discriminatory) ideas about certain members of the population.
For example, male authors have historically depicted many female characters as being helpless or even hysterical (the “damsel in distress”). This allows (male) writers to then introduce male protagonists that will save their female counterparts from some outside danger (often other “bad” men) or even the danger they supposedly pose to themselves.
Another tactic is, of course, to overly sexualize women, reducing them to objects—rather than fully fleshed characters—to be gawked at. Rather unsurprisingly, this gives rise to one-note characters who exist primarily to serve some male fantasy, reminding us once again of novelists’ intended audience throughout history (men writing for other men).
As stories have always been used to reflect our (idealized) reality, such depictions of female characters therefore provide an air of “normality” to the subjugation of women in society. In my opinion, they have even hindered the advancement of gender equality, reminding us of how easily literature can be utilized to advance certain kinds of propaganda (depending on the reader of course… Atlas Shrugged, anyone?)
Speaking of Ayn Rand, I should probably point out that female authors can be just as guilty of revealing their own biases when writing male protagonists. I recently read the book A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara after finally getting my hands on a copy in English. While I seem to be in the minority here, I really disliked this book, not because the plot line didn’t have some serious potential (it did), or because the writing wasn’t good (it was), but because I found it so inconsistent at times that it was bordering on absurdity (note: spoilers ahead).
So, after reading praise after praise of this novel, I thought I would write my own review, pointing out some criticisms that I have yet to come across (and yes I know that I am about 3 years late, but I suffered through 700+ pages of this book after months of looking forward to reading it, so I am going to write my review anyways).
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To begin, Yanagihara depicts the four main male characters as sensitive and openly vulnerable with one other. This in and of itself is fine, but it’s not very believable for male-on-male platonic friendships in which—and I am of course generalizing here—there are a lot of codified, unspoken rules such as men showing their affection for one other through teasing, often crudely.
This is, in my opinion, why she makes all four male friends queer to varying extents (who, of course, all happen to be in love with one another), but this feels less like a conscious choice than a last-minute change of plans to make up for superficial character building, relying on “shock factor” in the place of craft, a tendency that Yanagihara resorts to often.
This is because a majority of the characters in the novel, and all of the abusive ones such as Brother Luke or Caleb, are gay, with their homosexuality almost always being linked to some kind of perversion (haven’t we been down this road before?). Brother Luke is a pedophile and de-facto pimp, Caleb is the abuser of all abusers, and even the “less problematic” gay characters such as JB are depicted as divas.
Then there is the friendship-turned-romantic relationship between Wilem and Jude, never mind their enabler-enabled tendencies. Now, I understand that real life isn’t black and white—and the way their love for one another was written could really be quite touching at times—but their relationship was far from being the “great gay love story” as some have called it.
Her biggest misrepresentation—and where she is absolutely unable to suspend disbelief—is her writing on trauma, however. If writing about male-on-male romantic relationships is two steps removed from Yanagihara’s personal life, then the character of Jude and his backstory must be about ten.
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Yanagihara loads the character of Jude with so much trauma—taking up most of the space in the story, especially after about the 200th page—that there is little room to add any kind of commentary or nuance. It is the literary equivalent of cramming a painting with so much detail that the viewer’s eye simply doesn’t know where it is supposed to be drawn to.
We are therefore left, in my opinion, with a one-note character whose trauma is used as a substitute for character building. She seems to make up for this by having Jude pursue all sorts of hobbies (mathematics, piano, baking, travel), which obviously he must have the time for as a law student who later becomes a public-turned-corporate attorney.
Writing a character with such invasive trauma might be forgivable, however, if that trauma retained even the slightest trace of realism. What for me was simply too far-fetched was the idea that someone with Jude’s background would go on to become such a resounding success, climbing to the top of the ranks to become one of NYC’s most high-powered (and well-paid) lawyers. (All of which is made possible by Jude’s brilliance, despite a completely disjointed, unstructured education in early childhood.)
Yet he never once falls victim to drug abuse or ends up on the street (as an adult). He never once has a burn-out, despite, at one point, completing law school and a master’s degree at the same time, all while working part-time. Even in his adult years, he never seems to really suffer physically from his job (at least until the end), despite being handicapped. He never even struggles to hold down a job or faces work discrimination due to his physical disability.
Not only does this overlook the very real effects of childhood trauma on physical development, but I felt that it was also a missed opportunity for socio-economic commentary. Jude never once feels rage at the economic inequality he witnesses? He never once feels resentment towards his well-off friends or the elite world that he enters into? (Perhaps unsurprising given that the novel is written by a luxury travel writer rather than, say, a social worker).
The story follows the classic American Dream narrative (if you work hard, you will rise to the top), mirrored by the novel’s three other main characters in addition to Jude. Yet, very little in this novel feels earned: most of the characters’ wealth and success is simply given to them, with very little struggle or growth.
Of course, where Yanagihara flips the American Dream narrative is perhaps in Jude’s ending and the novel’s final take-away: despite his material and societal success, his trauma ultimately consumes him, leading him to take his own life.
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The novel’s conclusion—the implied futility of trying to overcome severe trauma (as Yanagihara herself doesn’t believe in therapy)—is stark enough on its own. But it is this, combined with the poorly-researched depiction of trauma and its implications for adulthood that made this book thoroughly unenjoyable for me (Yanagihara also admitted she didn’t do any research for the book).
I did not find it a tear-jerker simply because Jude, as well as most of the other characters in A Little Life, felt cartoonish. Maybe if Jude had experienced just half of his traumas (and was a little less of a genius), I would have found him compelling. Instead, he felt like a mishmash of characters, untethered and directionless, much like the novel itself, which is quite literally beyond the realm of time.
Now, I understand that this was supposed to be intentional—Jude is, in all senses of the word, paralyzed, caught in the freeze state of the fight-or-flight-or-freeze response, and thus fails to experience any growth—but it just felt like lazy writing to me. I didn’t empathize with Jude because neither he nor his story arch felt coherent or realistic.
And if the point of the novel wasn’t to empathize with Jude, then I wonder what the point really was. There is little plot apart from Jude’s trauma and its effect on his relationship with Willem; its character building and progression is weak at best; and its depiction of mental illness (not to mention gay characters) is, frankly, almost dangerous.
Much like male authors who have “played with fire” in their depictions of female protagonists, I feel that Yanagihara does much of the same in her portrayal of trauma and mental illness (and their supposed connection to gayness). If nothing else, this book has, at the very least, reminded me of the importance of bridging the gap between our own life experiences and those of the characters we write.
Now I’d very much like the two weeks of my life that I spent reading this book back.