I had read all of the short listed Booker prize nominations, except for Flesh, which didn't appeal. When it won, I decided to read it.
Loved it. I was absorbed and moved by the portrait of a youth and man moving through the world, more acted upon than participant, both unmoored and deeply connected to people.
Okay, almost his entire vocabulary - a count of 500, if anyone is wondering. It was also fun when other characters picked up his habit.
A perfectly crafted novel, excellent structure and pacing. Trusting the reader, instead of laboring interiority or motivations. This is one man. This is his life. Feel something. And I did.
How very perceptive! The very tense confrontation in the art gallery in which Istvan violently attacks his stepson is uncannily (?) similar to the famous scene in BL in which Barry and step-son Lord Lyndon go mano-o-mano on the floor during the violin concert. And like Barry, Istvan is both shadowed and protected by his watchful mother.
Plus: Both go to war after a romance gone wrong. Both have affairs in which the husband dies of natural causes, allowing for their elevation into the elite. Both rely on their looks and a bit of resilience, and are kind of blown about by fate, rather than having agency over their own destiny.
Also, Istvan and Barry have wary, increasingly fraught relationships with step-sons, while at the same time pining their hopes on a financially secure future with the birth of (beloved) biological sons. Who both die prematurely, and tragically, leading to the inevitable destruction and banishment of both fathers.
It's hard to read this criticism. It's also why I want to write about being a man - the 21st century interpretation of one is fraught between a life of financial risk-taking and vanity vs. the old values of family, loyalty, defense, and love. Andrew Tate being straightforward and any other path being without community and shared values. Ladder climbing...
Thanks, Thomas. Enjoyed your insights and smiled at the thought of you checking the book the gentleman was reading on the train. One question I had after finishing your piece: so, have you ordered some Robert Greene now?
I liked David Szalay's novel "Flesh" even though I've never met a man like Istvan, and I doubt that such a man exists.
"Okay." "I don't know." "Okay." "I don't know." "Okay." "I don't know."
If you cut those words out of the book, there wouldn't be much left.
Who talks like that?
Since the protagonist basically lacks a language, the author must step in and interpret his mind, but there are hardly any thoughts. That's not being a man, and I find it hard to believe that even one with PTSD would be reduced to a state of non-being, non-communicative, and if he was, he would not represent what it is to be a man, but of being sick. It's true that he is not completely closed off to experience when interacting with Helen, and he doesn't completely lack empathy, but that doesn't make him a man. One could say that Flesh is a novel about a person who is unable to be a man.
Stand naked before thy mirror, count the dicks apparent, put your hand on your heart, look to the heavens and loudly declare, “I am a man!!” And should thou hearest a female voice shrieketh, “in your dreams shit for brains!” It affirms thy masculinity and seek thy dick again just to make sure.
A most enjoyable and insightful piece on Szalay’s work. I read All That Man Is several years back and loved his writing! I read Turbulence, the next book, as well. I’m very much looking forward to reading Flesh. Glad he won The Booker Prize!
I had read all of the short listed Booker prize nominations, except for Flesh, which didn't appeal. When it won, I decided to read it.
Loved it. I was absorbed and moved by the portrait of a youth and man moving through the world, more acted upon than participant, both unmoored and deeply connected to people.
Okay, almost his entire vocabulary - a count of 500, if anyone is wondering. It was also fun when other characters picked up his habit.
A perfectly crafted novel, excellent structure and pacing. Trusting the reader, instead of laboring interiority or motivations. This is one man. This is his life. Feel something. And I did.
like all great criticism it makes you want to read the books
I’m surprised how few people have commented that it’s basically Barry Lyndon.
How very perceptive! The very tense confrontation in the art gallery in which Istvan violently attacks his stepson is uncannily (?) similar to the famous scene in BL in which Barry and step-son Lord Lyndon go mano-o-mano on the floor during the violin concert. And like Barry, Istvan is both shadowed and protected by his watchful mother.
Plus: Both go to war after a romance gone wrong. Both have affairs in which the husband dies of natural causes, allowing for their elevation into the elite. Both rely on their looks and a bit of resilience, and are kind of blown about by fate, rather than having agency over their own destiny.
Also, Istvan and Barry have wary, increasingly fraught relationships with step-sons, while at the same time pining their hopes on a financially secure future with the birth of (beloved) biological sons. Who both die prematurely, and tragically, leading to the inevitable destruction and banishment of both fathers.
It is definitely a revival of the picaresque novel!
a POLYESTER suit!? No way you can disarm your victim wearing that. Needs to upgrade to a higher quality fabric.
In all seriousness, good piece, and more proof that there are, in fact, men writing about men. Not sure why autofiction had to catch a stray, though.
It's hard to read this criticism. It's also why I want to write about being a man - the 21st century interpretation of one is fraught between a life of financial risk-taking and vanity vs. the old values of family, loyalty, defense, and love. Andrew Tate being straightforward and any other path being without community and shared values. Ladder climbing...
Thanks, Thomas. Enjoyed your insights and smiled at the thought of you checking the book the gentleman was reading on the train. One question I had after finishing your piece: so, have you ordered some Robert Greene now?
I liked David Szalay's novel "Flesh" even though I've never met a man like Istvan, and I doubt that such a man exists.
"Okay." "I don't know." "Okay." "I don't know." "Okay." "I don't know."
If you cut those words out of the book, there wouldn't be much left.
Who talks like that?
Since the protagonist basically lacks a language, the author must step in and interpret his mind, but there are hardly any thoughts. That's not being a man, and I find it hard to believe that even one with PTSD would be reduced to a state of non-being, non-communicative, and if he was, he would not represent what it is to be a man, but of being sick. It's true that he is not completely closed off to experience when interacting with Helen, and he doesn't completely lack empathy, but that doesn't make him a man. One could say that Flesh is a novel about a person who is unable to be a man.
Stand naked before thy mirror, count the dicks apparent, put your hand on your heart, look to the heavens and loudly declare, “I am a man!!” And should thou hearest a female voice shrieketh, “in your dreams shit for brains!” It affirms thy masculinity and seek thy dick again just to make sure.
Great piece
A most enjoyable and insightful piece on Szalay’s work. I read All That Man Is several years back and loved his writing! I read Turbulence, the next book, as well. I’m very much looking forward to reading Flesh. Glad he won The Booker Prize!
great piece
ill check David Szalay out can u give me a title to start with
After reading this, I want to look up Szalay's novels and see for myself.
I would start with All that man is. It is a good introduction to his style.
If anyone could wrench me out of my careerist despondency, it was *HE*.
Otherwise, a pretty good post.