RaveThe New YorkerFrom the moment I picked up A Little Life, I couldn’t put it down. I read the whole thing in three days. When it was over, I felt sorry and reluctant to read anything else. I actually started rereading it—I reread the first twenty pages, and then I stopped, not because I wanted to but because I had professional obligations to read other things ... I was mystified at first as to how I was able to tolerate, let alone devour, a book so devoted to two of my least-favorite literary topoi (pedophilia, lifestyles of the rich and glamorous). Then it occurred to me that perhaps what was so compelling was precisely the combination of the two ... somehow, when I crawled into bed every night with A Little Life, when I read about all the great apartments and great parties and great meals, juxtaposed with the visceral and meticulous story of a child whose trust and body and soul are systematically and deliberately broken by sadists for their personal entertainment, I felt that I recognized something true, and I felt comforted.
