David Szalay’s Flesh is a novel that tells the life of a man who lived entirely by “going with the flow.” It’s a book I read simply because I had nothing else to read — and finished it in the same spirit.
As a schoolboy, the protagonist has a relationship with an older woman — it ends in tragedy. Then we see him in his twenties, in another relationship. Then in Iraq, on the battlefield. Then in London. He keeps shifting roles — as a bouncer, as part of security details for the rich. He lives through it all with the same cold detachment — as a wealthy man’s family friend, as the lover of that man’s wife. He becomes rich, then goes broke.
The story even ends with the line: “Then he lived alone.”
There is nothing new in this novel. No philosophy, no ideals, no new writing techniques. Yet, it’s readable — and the book doesn’t demand anything from the reader. You’ll find plenty of long essays about it online. Many foreign readers consider it one of the best novels of the year.
I don’t. To me, it’s a book that shows how the Booker Prize has become just a marketing gimmick.
That said, it doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy the novel. After all, everyone has their own preferences — and that’s what matters most.