Who says you need to treat a serious subject seriously for it to have serious impact? Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine throws that idea out the window and all the way out of the stratosphere.

The eponymous protagonist of the book is a socially awkward, lonely woman who often goes entire days without speaking to someone or being touched by someone. As she says, “The scalp massage at the hairdresser, the flu jab I had last winter—the only time I experience touch is from people whom I am paying, and they are almost always wearing disposable gloves at the time.”

What Eleanor lacks in social grace, she makes up for with responses that seem confident, even autocratic. But as these don’t stem from true self-assurance, but rather from a lack of self-awareness and any kind of filter, she comes across as odd and hilarious at best, and bewildering or shocking at worst.

What this means? Loads of unintentional humour, scenes that make you chuckle, and situations that make you wish you could step into the story, give her a hug, and ask if she’d like to be friends (an offer she would no doubt politely but firmly refuse).

But underneath the levity, there is something traumatic lurking: mental health issues, abuse, neglect, and social isolation—it’s as dark as it gets.

The power of this book is how it handles these themes with grace and compassion. Don’t mistake the humour as a distraction from the darkness—it’s because these subjects are handled with velvet gloves that the underlying scars feel even more jarring by contrast.

At its core, the book is about unraveling the mystery of Eleanor Oliphant. Does she find someone to connect with? More importantly, does she find herself? But it’s also a reminder to look deeper in our everyday interactions. When we ask someone how they’re doing and they say they’re “fine”—are they really?

What a read. Shocking. Surreal. Grotesque in parts. Mesmerizing in its prose and feverish in its narration. Makes you squirm, shudder and recoil in discomfort. Makes you question how much autonomy a woman truly has over her body, let alone her mind. Makes you confront human fragility and punctures your definitions of reality and mental health. If there’s a thin line between sanity and insanity, then this book exposes how thin, unstable, and at times non-existent that line actually is. No wonder this is a story that people either love—or love to hate.

Like a nine-course meal, there is much to savour—but the flavours curdle quickly, turning fetid, leaving an aftertaste that lingers long after the last word.

Set in South Korea and translated into English, the novel begins with a woman’s sudden decision to turn vegetarian—a seemingly simple act that spirals into violent repercussions for her and her family, setting off a domino effect of obsession, delusion and depravity.

The Vegetarian is not a book one can easily stomach. Powerful and repulsive at once, read it at your own risk—nothing here is easy to swallow.