I found The Vegetarian by accident.
I wasn’t looking for it, I knew nothing about it, and I had no expectations.

It was resting on the chefs’ desk, in the kitchen office at work.
A place where books tend to be all the same: large, heavy cookbooks that pile up over time. Many of them by Peter Gilmore. No offence meant, I’ve seen them so often I barely notice them anymore!

This one was different.
Small, pocket-sized, published by Adelphi.
It immediately felt like something I would enjoy reading.

The title did the rest.
At the time, I had started reducing my consumption of animal products, and seeing a book called The Vegetarian in a chef’s office made me instantly assume it was about food, or diet.

I ordered it two minutes later, without even picking it up.

I thought it would be an interesting read from a chef’s perspective, someone forced to rethink menus and vegetarian alternatives to accommodate everyone.

I was convinced it was a book written by a chef about vegetarianism.

When the Book Refused to Be What I Thought

I realised, as soon as the book arrived at home, that this was not the book I thought I was about to read.
In fact, it had nothing to do with it.

I turned it over and read the back cover.
Words like sex, eating disorders, pushed to the limit jumped straight to my eyes.. and to my stomach.

I felt shaken.
I thought about the chef I believed the book belonged to and my reaction was instinctive: WHAT THE F—.

I started reading because I couldn’t not.

The Vegetarian is not a book about food or dietary choices.
It uses the body as a site of control and rupture, slowly pushing the story into increasingly unsettling territory.

The discomfort I felt while reading was constant.
I felt uneasy, almost exposed, as if the people around me might somehow sense the nature of what I was reading.

There is no moment in which the author loosens her grip, no sense that the worst is over.
The story offers no turn toward relief.

You remain inside something that gives no pause.

Staying With the Discomfort

I wouldn’t say I enjoyed reading this book.
I wouldn’t say I disliked it either.
I felt compelled to continue.

From the very first page, I felt condemned.
Shaken by my initial misunderstanding, yet tied to the words, the sentences, then the pages, and eventually the chapters.

A pull similar to fast food, to a series you finish in a hungover weekend, to the forced smiles you keep giving a table because you know the tips will be good.

I would recommend this book to readers willing to feel uncomfortable.
To those who have picked up many books only to put them down, unable to truly stay with any of them.

To those who put on their headphones, open Spotify before getting on the bus, and arrive at their destination without having listened to a single song in full.

To those who fall asleep choosing a film on Netflix instead of watching it.

This book doesn’t accompany you.
It makes you stay.

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