I found this book at my tenth-grade English teacher's house; she had invited me and one of my friends over to go through the books she was getting rid of and take what we wanted. An INCREDIBLY generous thing to do, and it introduced me to some fantastic authors: Judith Merkle Riley, Richard Adams...and Tom De Haan.
I've read this book countless times over the years. The dust jacket shredded away long ago, and the binding is starting to wear out. I should probably order another copy, just to be on the safe side, but there's something about coming back to the same physical object, time after time.
It's been over a decade since I last read this, and I was curious about how much would change in how I related to it. Before, it just seemed like an utter tragedy, A Little Life before A Little Life was released on the scene. Reyhnard, our protagonist, starts life in an astonishingly privileged position, but he's not needed, not even wanted, and so his ego is broken down from the moment he's born. Abused, neglected, bullied, it's no wonder he grows up craving love as much as he does.
But now, I find him sort of...laughable? Ridiculous, even, because even as the tragedies pile on, he is so intensely self-centered it's almost unbelievable. Characters are defined by how much they love him, or how much they reflect him back unto himself -- Madeleine, Peter -- to the point we barely get a glimpse of what they want or think. Their motivations fade into the distance, their interiority swallowed up by Reyhnard's pathetic bleating.
And I love it. He's such a wet rag of a person, but with the damage done to him by those years of neglect and bullying, is it any wonder he turned out this way? All Reyhnard wanted was to love his family and write some poems, and to be fair, he does love his family, totally and completely. As obsessed as he is with being loved, he is just as obsessed with loving them.
It doesn't change that he is wildly unprepared to be king, let alone to be a match for his wife, his own father's mistress. Beulah is still awful, on this reread, but she's a dynamic, driven, intelligent, and cunning woman, and I respect her so much for putting in the work of being not only the ruler the country deserves (as a power behind the throne), but also the sole functional adult in the cast.
On a prose level, it's still incandescent. I can see how this got into my writerly DNA, back when I was sixteen and still figuring out that I WANTED to write, let alone how. The pages go by, smooth as water, and I slipped into Tsvingtori and Ksaned Kaled without a ripple.
A very pleasurable, if grief-struck, way to spend the last two days.