David Szalay’s “Flesh” is “almost certainly the most monosyllabic” Booker Prize winner “ever”, said Johanna Thomas-Corr in The Times. The brooding protagonist, István, largely speaks in “gruff, gruntish ‘yeahs’, ‘nos’ and ‘okays’”, giving the book the “terse narrative style of a thriller”.
It may also be the “blokiest winner” in the literary award’s history, exploring masculinity in a way that will likely appeal to that “elusive creature, the 21st-century male reader of novels”.
‘Timely anxieties’ None of this year’s shortlisted authors tackled the question of identity more “compellingly” than Szalay (pictured above), whose “urgent and honest 349-page novel taps into timely anxieties about manhood”, said Martin Chilton in The Independent.
The story follows “emotionally detached” István from his teenage life in Hungary into adulthood, where he works in London as a bouncer and then as a driver for the super-rich. Covering a wide range of themes from “everyday struggles” to murder, Szalay writes with a “terse precision”, in a prose that is “pared to the bone” yet “deeply affecting”.
Cutting us off from István’s thoughts and emotions is a “risky strategy”, said Justine Jordan in The Guardian, but the “narrative flatness hugely pays off”. The “yawning gaps” in the text turn it into a “propulsive page-turner” as we seek to “solve the puzzle” of the protagonist.
‘Wasn’t the best book’ Szalay’s novel is “decent” enough, said Cal Revely-Calder in The Telegraph, “but it wasn’t the best book on the shortlist”. That was surely Kiran Desai’s “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny”, followed by Andrew Miller’s “The Land in Winter”. István’s thoughts are “framed plainly and clearly”, but although the novel “almost found a second gear that would have tempered the numbness” for me, “it never quite did”.
Szalay’s book “ensnared me” right from the opening pages, said Thomas-Corr in The Times, and “I’ve been raving” about his “clean, elegant prose ever since”. But I also have a “soft spot” for Miller, “one of Britain’s most underrated novelists”. Still, regardless of which book was best, “Flesh” should finally park the “hoary old claim that the male novelist stands no chance of success any more”. |