Flesh

After hearing so much about Flesh by David Szalay and its Booker Prize win, I was curious to see what the hype was about. Szalay’s writing is very controlled and simple. He doesn’t use fancy words or big dramatic scenes. Instead, he tells the story through small actions, body language and quiet moments. He doesn’t explain everything, so the reader has to pay attention and figure out some things on their own. Many critics like this style because it feels realistic and thoughtful. The book explores ideas about modern men, power, social class and relationships, but in a subtle way rather than with big speeches or clear explanations. The book also feels very careful and planned. Every scene seems to have a reason for being there and nothing feels random. You can tell Szalay knows exactly what kind of story he wants to tell. This gives the book a strong focus and a disciplined style. But this careful distance also made it harder for me to feel connected to the story. I could understand the main character, István, and what he was going through, but I didn’t feel strong emotions for him. Sometimes his feelings were hard to understand because the book doesn’t explain them much. This made parts of the story feel a bit cold or distant. Overall, I understand why Flesh is so highly praised. It’s thoughtful, well-made and impressive - even if it’s not a book I fully connected.

I liked the book, it's honest and unpretentious. I appreciated the author's trusts, at least I felt like I was trusted to get it, without unnecessary clutter I could make my mind, freely, about this character, his life, his feelings. It left me thinking about my very own life and choices and I adore a book that stays with me even after I have turned the last page.

David Szalay’s Flesh is a novel defined by reduction: in language, in gesture, and in emotional exposition. The prose is deliberately pared down, almost austere, and it is precisely this restraint that gives the book its distinctive power. Szalay writes in clean, economical sentences, stripping scenes of excess description and leaving much unsaid. As a result, the novel reads quickly, yet never lightly; its apparent simplicity conceals a dense psychological and moral complexity. This reduced style shapes the reading experience in a decisive way. Because Szalay refuses to guide the reader with explicit judgments or emotional signposts, every interaction feels charged with tension. Meaning emerges not from explanation but from implication, from what characters do—or fail to do—rather than what they articulate. The language creates space, and in that space the reader is compelled to reflect, to interpret, and sometimes to feel deeply unsettled. At the center of *Flesh* lies an intentionally **ambivalent protagonist**, one who resists easy categorization. Szalay constructs this character in such a way that identification is constantly interrupted by doubt. At moments, the protagonist appears vulnerable, even sympathetic; at others, distant, opaque, or morally troubling. This oscillation makes it impossible to settle definitively on one side. The reader is drawn into a state of ethical uncertainty, mirroring the character’s own lack of clarity and emotional detachment. In this sense, *Flesh* is less about plot than about perception and judgment. Szalay confronts the reader with the discomfort of withholding verdicts, asking us to sit with contradiction rather than resolve it. The novel’s restrained language and moral ambiguity combine to create a quietly disturbing, intellectually demanding work—one that lingers precisely because it refuses to offer easy answers.