書名 : Luster
作者 : Raven Leilani
類型 : 文學小說
出版年 : 2020
Edie是名20出頭的黑人女生，家境不富裕且身為藝術家的她，在出版社做著低薪的工作餬口，同時她與一位已婚男子Eric開始了一段複雜的關係；當Edie被辭退、落入無家可歸的情境時，她因緣搬進了Eric的家中，並意外地逐漸與他的妻子與女兒建立特殊的連結。
Luster是去年下半年十分熱門的文學小說，而且也出現在許多人的年度top 10之中，這波好評熱潮讓我很好奇它的魅力。在讀的過程我其實有些意外，因為我原先預想故事會著重在Eric的開放式婚姻與Edie作為第三者的部分，但其實書本的主軸是放在Edie本人身上，看著這樣一個20多歲的黑人年輕女生如何在現在的社會中各個面向生存。而儘管與我想像不同，我仍然挺喜歡這本書最終呈現的樣貌。我認為作者呈現地很棒的是那種真實貼切現在年輕世代的感受，(很多國外媒體會用"millennial fiction"一詞形容這類作品)，描述Edie在經濟上、情感上、家庭上、創作上受到的困難與挫折，同時精準地將她(及很多年輕人)所抱持的無力感用文字表現出來。她所經歷的是或許是很多人可以感同身受的，背負著龐大的學生貸款、原先低薪沒有未來的工作被炒了後只得做外送跑腿過活、一段段關係都是短暫而純粹的肉體需求，直到Eric。
主角Edie也是一個很讓我喜歡閱讀的角色，雖然說自己不見得會認同她的行為舉止，但她的想法以及與他人的互動都十分有意思，複雜立體的個性與特別的口吻也讓我很著迷。她在大多時候都給人有些冷淡、帶有距離感、甚至有點憤世嫉俗或死氣沉沉的感覺，(同時可以看到她對社會或周遭的細微觀察與批判)；但偶爾有那麼幾個時候，可以看見她露出真摯感性的一面；作者也赤裸地展示Edie對情慾的感受，以及在孤獨渴望下的激進偏執。這是為什麼我很喜歡這個角色，流露因為這幾個層次的變化與揉合，她在我心中逐漸有著十分立體且富含人性的形狀，不再只是文字構築的概念。
書中透過Edie的觀察視角，它也探討許多社會的議題，除了前面提及對於年輕一代的掙扎的討論、或關於孤獨與飢渴，最主要一點就是種族議題。從她過去自己的家庭到現在的生活、職場，讀者會讀到身為黑人的Edie在日常生活中所注意到的細微，她是如何被以不同的方法對待。特別是住進Eric家後，與他妻子女兒的互動格外有意思，而且身為一個白人中高收入社區極少數的黑人之一，。但我個人覺得稍稍可惜的是，針對Eric的開放式婚姻或他與妻子的互動並沒有很多篇幅描述，我覺得這感覺會是滿有趣的內容，(不過這比較脫離Edie本人故事，所以好像如此也是理所當然😅)
最後，最讓我驚喜的一點可能是書中的詼諧幽默，我當初完全沒想到這本書會讓我笑出這麼多次，Edie本人就帶著一種奇葩的幽默感，作者的文筆也將這種特別的黑色尖銳詼諧呈現的很棒，特別的像有時會出現很莫名但準確的比喻或描述，為文字添加許多趣味。提到文筆，我還滿喜歡作者的文字，但無法準確說出為何XD。儘管使用了大量的長句與譬喻，但仍然給我十分的乾淨俐落的感覺，就像是Edie給我的印象一樣。
P.S.推薦這個我覺得很值得一看的書本討論影片，Claire Reads books針對“millennial fictions”一詞，透過Luster及其他基本作品來說明討論。
摘句
His joy is raw in a way that makes me feel like I can unzip my skin suit and show him all the ooze inside. But not yet. There is a sadness about his fervor, the way it feels slightly put on, as if he has something to prove. He looks over at me when we reach the top. The wind cards through his hair. Behind his eyes, I see myself fractured into pieces. Suddenly it feels painful to be this ordinary, to be this open to him, as he looks at me and pretends I am not just a cheaper version of a fast Italian car.
I didn’t tell him I was a virgin because I could not bear to be treated tenderly. I didn’t want him to be careful. I wanted it to be over with. So when it hurt and I was too proud to say stop and so said more, I believed, like a Catholic or a Tortured Artist, that the merit of a commitment correlates directly to the pain you endure in its pursuit.
I think of my parents, not because I miss them, but because sometimes you see a black person above the age of fifty walking down the street, and you just know that they have seen some shit. You know that they are masters of the double consciousness, of the discreet management of fury under the tight surveillance and casual violence of the outside world. You know that they said thank you as they bled, and that despite the roaches and the instant oatmeal and the bruise on your face, you are still luckier than they have ever been, such that losing a bottom-tier job in publishing is not only ridiculous but offensive.
I’ve made my own hunger into a practice, made everyone who passes through my life subject to a close and inappropriate reading that occasionally finds its way, often insufficiently, into paint. And when I am alone with myself, this is what I am waiting for someone to do to me, with merciless, deliberate hands, to put me down onto the canvas so that when I’m gone, there will be a record, proof that I was here.
I think of how keenly I've been wrong. I think of all the gods I have made out of feeble men.
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