A Dive into the Depths of Emptiness: A Review of Flesh by Júlia Szalay
Every so often, a novel comes along that makes you question your own emotions while wading through the murky waters of human relationships. Flesh by Júlia Szalay caught my attention for exactly that reason. With its unsettling themes and deeply introspective characters, I found myself both intrigued and repelled—a dual sensation that danced through my mind long after I turned the last page.
At its core, Flesh presents the unfurling life of István, a fifteen-year-old boy who exists in a world filled with detachment and emotional disconnect. This is vividly illustrated in the relationship he forms with a forty-two-year-old married woman. Right out of the gate, the narrative plunges into discomforting territory, making the stomach churn. While it initially serves as a respite from István’s strained relationship with his mother in Hungary, it quickly becomes evident that this dalliance is less of a coming-of-age story and more of a harbinger of misplaced guilt and raw trauma. As István himself reflects, “As long as no one knows about it, it’s like it isn’t really happening.”
What struck me most about Flesh was Szalay’s ability to capture the nuances of emotional apathy. István is not a hero; he’s lukewarm and run-of-the-mill, stuck in a state of existence devoid of struggle or ambition. While I found it challenging to empathize with his journey, the narrative held me captive. There’s a haunting sadness that often envelops the pages, and Szalay’s straightforward yet immersive writing style serves as a mirror to István’s own detached worldview.
There are moments of startling honesty, too—like the peculiar line about “Their pubic hair lifts and sways in the water like marine vegetation.” As daring as that description is, it reflects the rawness of István’s experiences, forcing the reader to confront the very real and messy nature of intimacy with all its intrinsic flaws.
As I progressed through the novel, this vague disconnection morphed into a biting sadness that struck a chord with me. Szalay paints a stark landscape of incomplete lives, where connections turn into bleak reminders of loneliness. I could feel the heavy weight of István’s choices, and the narrative inevitably led me to tears. “What was the point? Was it all for naught?” I found myself wondering, even as I sympathized with this boy lost in a cycle of unwitting regret.
Szalay’s Flesh is not an easy read—it’s unsettling, thought-provoking, and at times, hauntingly beautiful. It may not offer a clear resolution; instead, it lingers in that uncomfortable space of emotional ambiguity. It’s a book for readers who enjoy deep character studies and can stomach stories that tread into morally gray areas. If you’re up for a reflective journey through the ramifications of choices and the inherent voids in human connection, I highly recommend giving Flesh* a try.
As for me, I walked away not just with a sense of unresolved melancholy, but also an appreciation for the complexities of human emotion—a bittersweet acknowledgment that sometimes, understanding comes with its own burdens.