Nothing in Beatles history has ever suggested that such a romance existed, but in the world of fanfiction, anything is fair game. Oftentimes though, pairings can be unconventional, or not canon-like, for example, a romance between John and George. For example, if you’re reading fanfiction based on The Beatles, perhaps your favorite pairing is John and Yoko, and so the stories you seek out revolve around them. Usually each story, or “fic” as they are often called, deals with particular romances or “pairings” between the source material’s characters. Then, one day, I found myself saying, “It’s like reading fanfiction! It’s supposed to be over the top!” Suddenly, the book and my dedication to it began to make sense.įor the uninitiated, fanfiction is a genre of writing wherein fans of a particular franchise take their favorite characters and write them new stories. I struggled to find an explanation for why I had loved this aspect of the novel, felt I understood it even, when so many others hadn’t felt the same. But there are also those who share my husband’s opinion, hating the book for what it put them through emotionally. Reading reviews of the book, I realized I wasn’t alone in my seemingly masochistic enjoyment of the book’s trauma. Instead, I always felt fully aware of Yanagihara’s commitment to sorrow-if that’s what you want to call it-and instead often felt propelled by the book’s tragedies, and equally buoyed by its triumphs. To me, A Little Life was relentless, but never once did I feel cajoled into an unwelcome melancholy. I remember feeling confused by his confession, maybe even a little angered. He felt manipulated, tricked into an emotional ache that didn’t let up for the entirety of the novel. But, he explained, he was also frustrated with Yanagihara. He’s one of only two people I’ve ever told to read it, and when he finished the final pages, he told me he teared up a little, that it got him, too. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” he’d ask. The first time I read it, I wept uncontrollably through the entire thing, my husband coming home to find me inconsolable and sobbing on the couch. It’s a book I love carefully, perhaps even protectively, guarding its contents from criticism with a fervor I can only describe as “devout.” It’s the book I wish I’d written, so pure is it in its dedication to the emotions of life. In fact, I stand firmly-and defensively-in the camp of people who have nothing but unflagging devotion for Hanya Yanagihara’s 720-page masterpiece about the lives of four men bound together by friendship and love.
When I’m asked for book recommendations, I will not, cannot recommend A Little Life.
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