It may seem ill-mannered to find fault in recent categories of literature such as novels centred around millennials, ‘cool girls’, or ‘sad girls’, however, some books seem to over-rely on common characteristics of these so-called ‘non-genres’; a case in point is Emily Slapper’s inaugural novel, Everyone I Know Is Dying. This overuse makes the reader wonder whether the publishing world is attempting a peculiar practical jest.
The book’s main character is a young lady bearing a more mature name, unsurprisingly called Iris. She finds her way to London, endeavouring to achieve individual accomplishments that take various forms – wealth, societal acceptance, beauty, and love. Iris champions the practices of the present time, such as strictly timed morning beauty preparations and constantly seeking promotion at work. Yet, once she attains her desired achievements, she finds herself not relieved but disappointed, plunging into a profound state of gloom. The narrative tries to depict this depressive state in a manner that replicates Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation or Meg Mason’s Sorrow and Bliss, raising questions about the influence of these authors in the book’s approach.
Engaging with Everyone I Know Is Dying may give one a feeling of partaking in a millennial literature-themed bingo. Predictable risqué sexual innuendos, dynamics of power in liaisons, excessively introspective writing and a beautiful, thin protagonist who despises herself to the point of eating disorders, acting as the required components to shout ‘bingo!’ Reading the paragraph mentioned might give you an impression that you’ve stumbled upon a caricatured imitation of Sally Rooney’s work.
A lenient reader may appreciate the intent behind Slapper’s work – a raw exploration of complex mental health struggles, comparable to Annie Ernaux’s unflinching style or the sombre moodiness of Sylvia Plath. The central character, Iris, evokes the concept of the infamously ‘unlikeable protagonist’, making her one for the memory books.
The shortcomings of this book are rooted not in its appeal, but its believability. Events unfold arbitrarily – no apparent links of cause and effect. A woman engages in a relationship with her superior and is met with no repercussions. A grandmother ignores the logical heirs in her will, leaving her estate to her granddaughter, without any conflict arising. The characters lack the ability to convincingly express affection or establish a bond amongst themselves, merely uttering “I love you”.
Emerging from “Everyone I Know Is Dying”, there is an intangible sense of a great novel lurking in the periphery. However, the actual copy that we possess falls short, presenting merely a substandard facsimile of the potential masterpiece. It is indeed a dismal spectre in the realm of millennial literature.