Generally speaking, when I read a good book, I have no qualms recommending it to others. However, I now find myself in the unusual position of having read a good book that I cannot recommend—not without a sharp pang of misgiving in my chest. Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica is one of the most polarizing works of fiction I’ve had the pleasure (or rather, agony) of reading. Initially published in Argentina in 2017, the book’s 2020 debut into the English-speaking world coincided perfectly with the social trauma inflicted by the Covid-19 pandemic. The context and timing of its publication give the book a veneer of eerie realism and relatability that it would not have otherwise had, casting a sinister shadow over the novel.
The premise of the story is dystopian. In a world where a deadly virus has rendered all livestock unfit for consumption, the agriculture industry has adapted by breeding and slaughtering humans like cattle. Unlike regular humans, these humans are bred in captivity, pumped up with growth hormones, categorized by race, quality and purity and then slaughtered on an assembly line. They are heavily regulated by the government and are euphemized to the point of abstraction to separate ‘livestock’ from the rest of humanity in the mind of the public.
The idea alone is shocking enough. But the horror of the story comes not from the plot but from the tone. What could be worse than horrified people surrounded by horrifying things? The answer, as Bazterrica shows, is disinterested people surrounded by horrifying things. All through the story, moral outrage is painfully absent. Even the main protagonist, who is morally conflicted, never says or does anything to challenge the way things are. At best, people have an “it is what it is” attitude; at worst, people are joyful and willfully ignorant.
Bazterrica is unrelenting in her writing. She plunges the reader into her world right from the start, offering no chance to surface for air until the end. No detail is spared. In all its soulless industrial glory, the entire process is enumerated with excruciating precision and indifference. People are born, bred, slaughtered and consumed. For Bazterrica and her characters, this practice is a standard feature of life. Some question it, and others are conflicted by it. But everyone tolerates it.
Some critics have suggested that Bazterrica’s novel is a commentary on the brutality of consumption under late-stage capitalism—capitalism will always find a resource to consume, even at the expense of humanity. I find this assessment plausible but also a bit sanctimonious. Bazterrica very well may have intended to critique capitalism, but the moral I found was far simpler: humans are capable of doing horrible things to one another, and most people don’t care so long as the horrible things don’t happen to them. This fundamental truth has been seen time and again throughout history. Bazterrica merely takes it to its conceptual end. The true horror of her story comes not from the fantasy alone, but from the fact that the fantasy seems so plausible. Despite the moral reprehensibility of slaughtering specially bred humans for consumption, the story feels too near and too real to be simple imagination.
If you have a weak stomach, I urge you to steer clear of this book. It is not for the faint of heart and will leave you in shambles. The story is gratuitous in its detail, and the characters are maddeningly indifferent. Personally, I don’t think the moral of the story was worth enduring the story itself—although, perhaps, I am wrong and have missed the point entirely. Maybe Bazterrica wanted her readers to feel hopeless and disgusted. Perhaps the reader’s “wasted” time is an analog to the waste depicted in the novel. Perhaps there is no redeeming value, and it is futile to search for one; I don’t know. If you want to search for value in the book, you’re welcome to read it yourself; otherwise, I think there are better books out there that are more worthy of your time.