Trauma and Masculinity in David Szalay's Flesh

David Szalay’s sixth novel, Flesh, published by Scribner in 2025, is a haunting, minimalist exploration of trauma, masculinity, and alienation, tracing the life of István, a taciturn Hungarian man navigating a series of uncontrollable events. Born in Canada to a Hungarian father and Canadian mother, Szalay, a Booker Prize finalist for All That Man Is (2016), is celebrated for his incisive portrayals of contemporary masculinity, earning praise as “the shrewdest writer on contemporary masculinity we have” (Esquire, 2025). Described as “spare and detached on the page, lush in resonance beyond it” (NPR, 2025), Flesh follows István from a traumatic adolescence in 1980s Hungary to the elite circles of London, blending stark prose with profound emotional undercurrents.

This review argues that Flesh is essential reading for its unflinching examination of unresolved trauma, its innovative narrative gaps that invite reader projection, and its poignant reflection on identity in a globalized world. For Indian readers, its resonance with postcolonial narratives of displacement and resilience, akin to Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, Mohan Rakesh’s Andhere Band Kamre, Rajendra Yadav’s Sara Akash, and Punjabi authors Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva and Kartar Singh Duggal’s Ab Na Baso Yeh Gaon, makes it a vital text for exploring personal and cultural survival in the face of systemic forces.

Flesh opens in 1980s Hungary, where 15-year-old István lives with his mother in a quiet apartment complex: “The flat was small, its walls thin, and the silence pressed against my skin” (Szalay, 2025, p. 3). Shy and socially isolated, he struggles to connect with classmates, finding solace in routine errands for his neighbor, a married woman in her forties: “She asked for help with the bags, and I nodded, not knowing how to say no” (Szalay, 2025, p. 12). This relationship turns clandestine and sexual, initiated by the neighbor: “Her hands moved like they knew me, though I barely knew myself” (Szalay, 2025, p. 18). The affair spirals into tragedy when a confrontation with her ailing husband ends in his accidental death: “He fell, and the stairs took him, a sound like bones breaking on stone” (Szalay, 2025, p. 25). István, blamed for the death, is sent to a juvenile detention facility: “The walls of the institution were grey, like the days that stretched inside them” (Szalay, 2025, p. 33).

Released, István joins the Hungarian army and serves in Iraq, where trauma compounds: “The desert burned my eyes, but the screams burned deeper” (Szalay, 2025, p. 50). He emigrates to London, drifting through jobs—bouncer, security guard—before becoming a driver for a wealthy family: “The city was a maze of glass and steel, and I drove through it, a stranger still” (Szalay, 2025, p. 80). His emotional detachment is evident in his sparse interactions: “I said little, because silence was safer than words” (Szalay, 2025, p. 95). An affair with Helen, the wife of his employer Karl, leads to marriage after Karl’s death: “She looked at me like I could save her, but I was only there” (Szalay, 2025, p. 120). István becomes a stepfather to Helen’s son, Thomas, but remains haunted by his past: “The past clung to me, heavy as damp cloth, no matter where I went” (Szalay, 2025, p. 140).

The novel’s final chapters see István facing a moral dilemma as his newfound wealth unravels: “Money bought the house, but not the quiet I needed” (Szalay, 2025, p. 150). A car accident implicating István disrupts his life, returning him to Hungary in a circular, melancholic close. Through István’s journey, Szalay explores how trauma shapes identity, leaving readers to fill the narrative gaps with their own interpretations.

Flesh is a masterful study in minimalism, using spare prose to convey profound emotional depth, as noted by critics who praise its “austere minimalism” (The Guardian, 2025). Szalay’s clipped style— “The flat was small, its walls thin, and the silence pressed against my skin” (Szalay, 2025, p. 3)—creates a hypnotic effect, akin to Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. This economy amplifies István’s detachment, making moments like “She looked at me like I could save her, but I was only there” (Szalay, 2025, p. 120) deeply affecting. The narrative gaps, where events like the husband’s death— “He fell, and the stairs took him, a sound like bones breaking on stone” (Szalay, 2025, p. 25)—occur off-page, invite reader projection, a technique reminiscent of Toni Morrison’s Beloved.

Szalay’s portrayal of masculinity— “I said little, because silence was safer than words” (Szalay, 2025, p. 95)—challenges stereotypes of agency, resonating with Mohan Rakesh’s Andhere Band Kamre, where male characters grapple with existential isolation. The novel’s global scope, from Hungary to Iraq to London—“The city was a maze of glass and steel, and I drove through it, a stranger still” (Szalay, 2025, p. 80)—mirrors the diasporic journeys in Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, offering Indian readers a lens on displacement. Its 350-page narrative balances accessibility and depth, as seen in comparisons to Paul Murray’s The Bee Sting (Goodreads, 2025). The novel’s resonance with Punjabi literature, such as Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva and Kartar Singh Duggal’s Ab Na Baso Yeh Gaon, which explore rural struggles and displacement, enhances its appeal for Indian readers seeking narratives of resilience.

Flesh has limitations for Indian readers. Its emotional distance— “The desert burned my eyes, but the screams burned deeper” (Szalay, 2025, p. 50)—may frustrate those accustomed to the emotional richness of Rajendra Yadav’s Sara Akash. Scenes without István, particularly those involving Helen and Thomas, feel “superfluous” (On the Seawall, 2025), lacking the cultural specificity of Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva. The European setting—“The walls of the institution were grey, like the days that stretched inside them” (Szalay, 2025, p. 33)—may feel remote to rural readers in Punjab or Bihar, where local issues like caste dominate, unlike the rooted narratives of Heart Lamp (2025 Booker winner).

The graphic content— “Her hands moved like they knew me, though I barely knew myself” (Szalay, 2025, p. 18)—and violence may unsettle readers preferring the subtler trauma explorations in Kamala Das’s My Story. The late shift to melodrama, noted as tilting “too far” (Bookmarks, 2025), weakens the novel’s restraint compared to Anita Desai’s Clear Light of Day. István’s passivity may alienate readers seeking proactive characters, particularly in India’s context of collective resistance movements. navigate a complex, globalized world.

Flesh is a masterful study in minimalism, using spare prose to convey profound emotional depth, as noted by critics who praise its “austere minimalism” (The Guardian, 2025). Szalay’s clipped style— “The flat was small, its walls thin, and the silence pressed against my skin” (Szalay, 2025, p. 3)—creates a hypnotic effect, akin to Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. This economy amplifies István’s detachment, making moments like “She looked at me like I could save her, but I was only there” (Szalay, 2025, p. 120) deeply affecting. The narrative gaps, where events like the husband’s death— “He fell, and the stairs took him, a sound like bones breaking on stone” (Szalay, 2025, p. 25)—occur off-page, invite reader projection, a technique reminiscent of Toni Morrison’s Beloved.

Szalay’s portrayal of masculinity— “I said little, because silence was safer than words” (Szalay, 2025, p. 95)—challenges stereotypes of agency, resonating with Mohan Rakesh’s Andhere Band Kamre, where male characters grapple with existential isolation. The novel’s global scope, from Hungary to Iraq to London—“The city was a maze of glass and steel, and I drove through it, a stranger still” (Szalay, 2025, p. 80)—mirrors the diasporic journeys in Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, offering Indian readers a lens on displacement. Its 350-page narrative balances accessibility and depth, as seen in comparisons to Paul Murray’s The Bee Sting (Goodreads, 2025). The novel’s resonance with Punjabi literature, such as Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva and Kartar Singh Duggal’s Ab Na Baso Yeh Gaon, which explore rural struggles and displacement, enhances its appeal for Indian readers seeking narratives of resilience.

Flesh has limitations for Indian readers. Its emotional distance— “The desert burned my eyes, but the screams burned deeper” (Szalay, 2025, p. 50)—may frustrate those accustomed to the emotional richness of Rajendra Yadav’s Sara Akash. Scenes without István, particularly those involving Helen and Thomas, feel “superfluous” (On the Seawall, 2025), lacking the cultural specificity of Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva. The European setting—“The walls of the institution were grey, like the days that stretched inside them” (Szalay, 2025, p. 33)—may feel remote to rural readers in Punjab or Bihar, where local issues like caste dominate, unlike the rooted narratives of Heart Lamp (2025 Booker winner).

The graphic content— “Her hands moved like they knew me, though I barely knew myself” (Szalay, 2025, p. 18)—and violence may unsettle readers preferring the subtler trauma explorations in Kamala Das’s My Story. The late shift to melodrama, noted as tilting “too far” (Bookmarks, 2025), weakens the novel’s restraint compared to Anita Desai’s Clear Light of Day. István’s passivity may alienate readers seeking proactive characters, particularly in India’s context of collective resistance movements.

Why Indian Readers Must Read This Book

Flesh by David Szalay is a must-read for Indian readers, particularly those from marginalized communities, because its haunting exploration of trauma, masculinity, and alienation resonates deeply with India’s postcolonial and patriarchal literary traditions, offering a transformative lens to confront personal and cultural survival in a globalized world. István’s detachment—“I said little, because silence was safer than words” (Szalay, 2025, p. 95)—mirrors the suppressed voices in Gurdial Singh’s Marhi Da Deeva, where rural Punjabi characters navigate systemic marginalization, speaking to readers in Punjab or rural Haryana facing economic and caste-based oppression. For urban readers in Delhi or rural communities in Jharkhand, István’s journey from a Hungarian housing project to London—“The city was a maze of glass and steel, and I drove through it, a stranger still” (Szalay, 2025, p. 80)—echoes the diasporic struggles in Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, encouraging reflection on India’s partition-era migrations or modern economic displacement to cities like Mumbai.

The novel’s focus on trauma— “The desert burned my eyes, but the screams burned deeper” (Szalay, 2025, p. 50)—parallels India’s collective wounds, from colonial exploitation to communal violence, as depicted in M.J. Akbar’s Riot After Riot. István’s coerced relationship— “Her hands moved like they knew me, though I barely knew myself” (Szalay, 2025, p. 18)—resonates with the gendered power dynamics in Kamala Das’s My Story, urging Indian women in Bengaluru or Rajasthan to confront patriarchal constraints. The accidental death—“He fell, and the stairs took him, a sound like bones breaking on stone” (Szalay, 2025, p. 25)—and detention—“The walls of the institution were grey, like the days that stretched inside them” (Szalay, 2025, p. 33)—evoke the systemic punishment faced by marginalized youth in India, from caste-based incarceration in Uttar Pradesh to economic exclusion in Chhattisgarh, encouraging readers to question justice systems.

István’s emotional restraint—“She looked at me like I could save her, but I was only there” (Szalay, 2025, p. 120)—challenges traditional masculinity, aligning with Mohan Rakesh’s Andhere Band Kamre, where men grapple with isolation, appealing to Indian men in Mumbai or Punjab navigating societal expectations. The novel’s globalized setting reflects the precarity of modern India, where migration to cities like Pune or abroad mirrors István’s journey. The circular return to Hungary— “Money bought the house, but not the quiet I needed” (Szalay, 2025, p. 150)—resonates with the nostalgia in Rajendra Yadav’s Sara Akash, speaking to readers in Uttar Pradesh or West Bengal who value cultural memory. The theme of alienation also connects with Kartar Singh Duggal’s Ab Na Baso Yeh Gaon, which portrays rural displacement in Punjab, resonating with readers in Amritsar or Ludhiana facing urban migration’s challenges.

Szalay’s narrative gaps, leaving events like the Iraq War’s trauma off-page, invite Indian readers to project their own experiences of historical silences, such as partition’s horrors in Punjab or riots in Gujarat. The novel’s accessibility makes it engaging for students in Bhopal or professionals in Hyderabad, while its philosophical depth—“The past clung to me, heavy as damp cloth, no matter where I went” (Szalay, 2025, p. 140)—echoes the introspective quests in Kabir’s teachings. Its resonance with Navratri’s celebration of resilience and Tagore’s vision of universal humanity makes Flesh a vital text for Indian readers seeking narratives of survival and identity in a world shaped by trauma and systemic forces. By addressing masculinity and displacement through a minimalist lens, the novel engages with India’s debates on gendered expectations and postcolonial identity, encouraging readers to reclaim their histories and challenge oppressive structures.

Flesh by David Szalay is a revelatory novel that cements his reputation as a master of minimalist storytelling. Its spare prose, captured in quotes like “The flat was small, its walls thin, and the silence pressed against my skin” (Szalay, 2025, p. 3) and “The past clung to me, heavy as damp cloth, no matter where I went” (Szalay, 2025, p. 140), delivers a profound exploration of trauma and masculinity. For Indian readers, its resonance with postcolonial voices like Salman Rushdie, Gurdial Singh, Kartar Singh Duggal, Mohan Rakesh, Rajendra Yadav, and Kamala Das makes it essential, despite its emotional distance and occasional melodramatic tilt. Its haunting imagery— “Her hands moved like they knew me, though I barely knew myself” (Szalay, 2025, p. 18)—and narrative gaps inspire reflection on India’s traumas and cultural identities. Highly recommended, Flesh is a powerful call for Indian readers to confront the silences of their past and embrace the resilience needed to navigate a complex, globalized world.