인터넷서점 인터파크도서

Praise for A Little Life: NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST SHORT-LISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE FINALIST FOR THE 2015 KIRKUS PRIZE FOR FICTION “Yanagihara’s immense new book, A Little Life, announces her, as decisively as a second work can, as a major American novelist. Here is an epic study of trauma and friendship written with such intelligence and depth of perception that it will be one of the benchmarks against which all other novels that broach those subjects (and they are legion) will be measured.” ―Sam Sacks, The Wall Street Journal "With her sensitivity to everything from the emotional nuance to the play of light inside a subway car, Yanagihara is superb at capturing the radiant moments of beauty, warmth and kindness that help redeem the bad stuff. In A Little Life, it's life's evanescent blessings that maybe, but only maybe, can save you." ―John Powers, NPR “…A Little Life becomes a surprisingly subversive novel―one that uses the middle-class trappings of naturalistic fiction to deliver an unsettling meditation on sexual abuse, suffering, and the difficulties of recovery. And having upset our expectations once, Yanagihara does it again, by refusing us the consolations we have come to expect from stories that take such a dark turn…. Yanagihara’s novel can also drive you mad, consume you, and take over your life. Like the axiom of equality, A Little Life feels elemental, irreducible―and, dark and disturbing though it is, there is beauty in it.” ―Jon Michaud, The New Yorker "This exquisite, unsettling novel follows four male friends from their meeting as students at a prestigious Northeastern college through young adulthood and into middle age.... The book shifts from a generational portrait to something darker and more tender: an examination of the depths of human cruelty, counterbalanced by the restorative powers of friendship." ―The New Yorker (Briefly Noted) "Hanya Yanagihara's second novel asks for a kind of immersion at odds with the practices of contemporary attention-deficit culture. A Litle Life is epic in scope, riveting on every page, and frequently stomach-churning in its explorations of pain and loss... [It] brought me to tears more than once; it is a book that asks the reader to feel as fully as Jude does, with a deep aesthetic and ethical purpose of observing and witnessing the pain of others." ―Jenny Davidson, Bookforum "Spring's must-read novel... If [Yanagihara's] assured 2013 debut, The People in the Trees, a dark allegory of Western hubris, put her on the literary map, her massive new novel...signals the arrival of a major new voice in fiction." ―Megan O'Grady, Vogue "Astonishing... It’s not hyperbole to call this novel a masterwork―if anything that word is simply just too little for it." ―Caroline Leavitt, San Francisco Chronicle "[The] book has so much richness in it―great big passages of beautiful prose, unforgettable characters, and shrewd insights into art and ambition and friendship and forgiveness." ―Leah ...Greenblatt, Entertainment Weekly "Through insightful detail and her decade-by-decade examination of these people’s lives, Yanagihara has drawn a deeply realized character study that inspires as much as devastates. It’s a life, just like everyone else’s, but in Yanagihara’s hands, it’s also tender and large, affecting and transcendent; not a little life at all." ―Nicole Lee, The Washington Post "There are truths here that are almost too much to bear―that hope is a qualified thing, that even love, no matter how pure and freely given, is not always enough. This book made me realize how merciful most fiction really is, even at its darkest, and it's a testament to Yanagihara's ability that she can take such ugly material and make it beautiful. It's a testament to Yanagihara's ability that she can take such ugly material and make it beautiful." ―Steph Cha, Los Angeles Times "A Little Life floats all sorts of troubling questions about the responsibility of the individual to those nearest and dearest and the sometime futility of playing brother’s keeper. Those questions, accompanied by Yanagihara’s exquisitely imagined characters, will shadow your dreamscapes." ―Jan Stuart, The Boston Globe "[A] monument of empathy, and that alone makes this novel wondrous." ―Claire Fallon,The Huffington Post "A Little Life is a harrowing novel with no happy ending, yet Yanagihara writes so well that it’s difficult to put it down, even in the midst of sobbing. Somehow, it’s an ordeal to read and a transformative experience, not soon forgotten." ―Anna Andersen, Minneapolis Star-Tribune "Yanagihara's most impressive trick is the way she glides from scenes filled with those terrifying hyenas to moments of epiphany. 'Wasn't it a miracle to have survived the unsurvivable? Wasn't friendship its own miracle, the finding of another person who made the entire lonely world seem somehow less lonely? Wasn't this house, this beauty, this comfort, this life a miracle?' A Little Life devotes itself to answering those questions, and is, in its own dark way, a miracle." ―Marion Winik, Newsday "[A] stunning work of fiction." ―Sherryl Connelly, The New York Daily News "Yanagihara’s novel is a remarkable feat." ―Ilana Masad, Bustle.com “A modern-day epic… This book will make you feel.” ―Isaac Fitzgerald, Buzzfeed “The phrase ‘tour de force’ could have been invented for this audacious novel.” ―Kirkus Reviews, starred review "This is a novel that values the everyday over the extraordinary, the push and pull of human relationships―and the book's effect is cumulative. There is real pleasure in following characters over such a long period, as they react to setbacks and successes, and, in some cases, change. By the time the characters reach their 50s and the story arrives at its moving conclusion, readers will be attached and find them very hard to forget." ―Publishers Weekly

1 The eleventh apartment had only one closet, but it did have a sliding glass door that opened onto a small balcony, from which he could see a man sitting across the way, outdoors in only a T-shirt and shorts even though it was October, smoking. Willem held up a hand in greeting to him, but the man didn’t wave back. In the bedroom, Jude was accordioning the closet door, opening and shutting it, when Willem came in. “There’s only one closet,” he said. “That’s okay,” Willem said. “I have nothing to put in it anyway.” “Neither do I.” They smiled at each other. The agent from the building wandered in after them. “We’ll take it,” Jude told her. But back at the agent’s office, they were told they couldn’t rent the apartment after all. “Why not?” Jude asked her. “You don’t make enough to cover six months’ rent, and you don’t have anything in savings,” said the agent, suddenly terse. She had checked their credit and their bank accounts and had at last realized that there was something amiss about two men in their twenties who were not a couple and yet were trying to rent a one-bedroom apartment on a dull (but still expensive) stretch of Twenty-fifth Street. “Do you have anyone who can sign on as your guarantor? A boss? Parents?” “Our parents are dead,” said Willem, swiftly. The agent sighed. “Then I suggest you lower your expectations. No one who manages a well-run building is going to rent to candidates with your financial profile.” And then she stood, with an air of finality, and looked pointedly at the door. When they told JB and Malcolm this, however, they made it into a comedy: the apartment floor became tattooed with mouse droppings, the man across the way had almost exposed himself, the agent was upset because she had been flirting with Willem and he hadn’t reciprocated. “Who wants to live on Twenty-fifth and Second anyway,” asked JB. They were at Pho Viet Huong in Chinatown, where they met twice a month for dinner. Pho Viet Huong wasn’t very good--the pho was curiously sugary, the lime juice was soapy, and at least one of them got sick after every meal--but they kept coming, both out of habit and necessity. You could get a bowl of soup or a sandwich at Pho Viet Huong for five dollars, or you could get an entree, which were eight to ten dollars but much larger, so you could save half of it for the next day or for a snack later that night. Only Malcolm never ate the whole of his entree and never saved the other half either, and when he was finished eating, he put his plate in the center of the table so Willem and JB--who were always hungry--could eat the rest. “Of course we don’t want to live at Twenty-fifth and Second, JB,” said Willem, patiently, “but we don’t really have a choice. We don’t have any money, remember?” “I don’t understand why you don’t stay where you are,” said Malcolm, who was now pushing his mushrooms and tofu--he always ordered the same dish: oyster mushrooms and braised tofu in a treacly brown sauce--around his plat...e, as Willem and JB eyed it. “Well, I can’t,” Willem said. “Remember?” He had to have explained this to Malcolm a dozen times in the last three months. “Merritt’s boyfriend’s moving in, so I have to move out.” “But why do you have to move out?” “Because it’s Merritt’s name on the lease, Malcolm!” said JB. “Oh,” Malcolm said. He was quiet. He often forgot what he considered inconsequential details, but he also never seemed to mind when people grew impatient with him for forgetting. “Right.” He moved the mushrooms to the center of the table. “But you, Jude--” “I can’t stay at your place forever, Malcolm. Your parents are going to kill me at some point.” “My parents love you.” “That’s nice of you to say. But they won’t if I don’t move out, and soon.” Malcolm was the only one of the four of them who lived at home, and as JB liked to say, if he had Malcolm’s home, he would live at home too. It wasn’t as if Malcolm’s house was particularly grand--it was, in fact, creaky and ill-kept, and Willem had once gotten a splinter simply by running his hand up its banister--but it was large: a real Upper East Side town house. Malcolm’s sister, Flora, who was three years older than him, had moved out of the basement apartment recently, and Jude had taken her place as a short-term solution: Eventually, Malcolm’s parents would want to reclaim the unit to convert it into offices for his mother’s literary agency, which meant Jude (who was finding the flight of stairs that led down to it too difficult to navigate anyway) had to look for his own apartment. And it was natural that he would live with Willem; they had been roommates throughout college. In their first year, the four of them had shared a space that consisted of a cinder-blocked common room, where sat their desks and chairs and a couch that JB’s aunts had driven up in a U-Haul, and a second, far tinier room, in which two sets of bunk beds had been placed. This room had been so narrow that Malcolm and Jude, lying in the bottom bunks, could reach out and grab each other’s hands. Malcolm and JB had shared one of the units; Jude and Willem had shared the other. “It’s blacks versus whites,” JB would say. “Jude’s not white,” Willem would respond. “And I’m not black,” Malcolm would add, more to annoy JB than because he believed it. “Well,” JB said now, pulling the plate of mushrooms toward him with the tines of his fork, “I’d say you could both stay with me, but I think you’d fucking hate it.” JB lived in a massive, filthy loft in Little Italy, full of strange hallways that led to unused, oddly shaped cul-de-sacs and unfinished half rooms, the Sheetrock abandoned mid-construction, which belonged to another person they knew from college. Ezra was an artist, a bad one, but he didn’t need to be good because, as JB liked to remind them, he would never have to work in his entire life. And not only would he never have to work, but his children’s children’s children would never have to work: They could make bad, unsalable, worthless art for generations and they would still be able to buy at whim the best oils they wanted, and impractically large lofts in downtown Manhattan that they could trash with their bad architectural decisions, and when they got sick of the artist’s life--as JB was convinced Ezra someday would--all they would need to do is call their trust officers and be awarded an enormous lump sum of cash of an amount that the four of them (well, maybe not Malcolm) could never dream of seeing in their lifetimes. In the meantime, though, Ezra was a useful person to know, not only because he let JB and a few of his other friends from school stay in his apartment--at any time, there were four or five people burrowing in various corners of the loft--but because he was a good-natured and basically generous person, and liked to throw excessive parties in which copious amounts of food and drugs and alcohol were available for free. “Hold up,” JB said, putting his chopsticks down. “I just realized--there’s someone at the magazine renting some place for her aunt. Like, just on the verge of Chinatown.” “How much is it?” asked Willem. “Probably nothing--she didn’t even know what to ask for it. And she wants someone in there that she knows.” “Do you think you could put in a good word?” “Better--I’ll introduce you. Can you come by the office tomorrow?” Jude sighed. “I won’t be able to get away.” He looked at Willem. “Don’t worry--I can. What time?” “Lunchtime, I guess. One?” “I’ll be there.” Willem was still hungry, but he let JB eat the rest of the mushrooms. Then they all waited around for a bit; sometimes Malcolm ordered jackfruit ice cream, the one consistently good thing on the menu, ate two bites, and then stopped, and he and JB would finish the rest. But this time he didn’t order the ice cream, and so they asked for the bill so they could study it and divide it to the dollar. The next day, Willem met JB at his office. JB worked as a receptionist at a smal

한야 야나기하라 [저]

아시아계 미국 소설가로, 1975년 로스앤젤레스에서 태어났다. 스미스칼리지에서 영문학을 공부하고 뉴욕으로 건너와 ‘빈티지북스’ 출판사와 유명 여행 잡지 《콘데나스트 트래블러》와 《T: 뉴욕타임스 스타일 매거진》에서 일하면서 소설을 썼다. 첫 장편 《숲 속의 사람들(People in the Trees)》(2013)로 뛰어난 데뷔소설에 주어지는 ‘펜/로버트 W. 빙햄’ 상 최종후보에 올랐고, 2015년 두 번째 장편 《리틀 라이프(A Little Life)》로 독자와 평단 모두에서 커다란 주목을 받았다. 천 페이지가 넘는 분량임에도 예측할 수 없는 서사와 무서운 흡인력으로 독자들 사이에서 빠르게 입소문이 퍼지기 시작하다, 맨부커상과 전미도서상 최종후보에까지 올라 화제가 되었다. 맨부커상 후보작 중 유례없는 독자들의 열광적 지지를 받았으며, 심사위원들 사이에서도 소설의 힘과 소재의 선정성으로 인해 뜨거운 논쟁작이 되기도 했다. 뉴욕타임스, 워싱턴포스트, 월스트리트저널, 가디언, 이코노미스트, NPR 등 25개 언론사에서 ‘올해의 책’으로 선정되었고, “‘걸작’이라는 단어는 이 소설을 위한 것이다”라는 극찬을 받으며 커커스 문학상을 수상했다.