Rage on the Page: ‘Boy Parts’ pictures the art of uncomfortable truths

In her column “Rage on the Page,” Melisa Guleryuz ’27 reviews books about anger in women’s literature.

This review contains spoilers.

Eliza Clark’s “Boy Parts” hits like a shot of adrenaline, drawing readers into the chaotic mind of Irina Sturges, a Newcastle, England-born photographer whose provocative photography is as disturbing as her lifestyle.

The story cleverly intertwines chapters of Irina’s power struggles with herself, her twisted ambition and her opinions of the London art scene, providing scathing commentary on class and regionalism. 

Clark situates Irina in settings that drip with gritty Northern England energy in a welcome departure from the many London-centric tales. “Boy Parts” is packed with sharp humor and raw honesty that make Irina’s discomfort with stereotypes about Northerners being labeled as lower-class relatable, especially when she recounts her frustrations. She thinks, “She’s looking at me like I clawed my way here out of a f—ing coal mine.”

We are immediately introduced to Irina’s compulsions to use photography not as art, but as a tool of control. Her unsettling interactions — such as coercing her coworker Eddie into vulnerable photoshoots that blur ethical boundaries — expose her desperation for dominance. 

“Was it my idea to have [Eddie] hurt me, or did he just let me think it was?” This line sets the stage for Clark’s exploration of power dynamics as Irina unquestioningly consents to drug use later in the book.

A bundle of contradictions, Irina’s character shifts between biting self-awareness and deeply unsettling behavior. Her exploration of gender dynamics is both fearless and discomforting, as she navigates spaces where she isn’t just the victim but the powerful instigator, such as her encounter with Eddie. The novel brims with comic observations, including Irina’s wry judgments of superficial trends: “She likes the men she thinks she’s supposed to like…she liked Harry Styles a few years ago, and now she likes that white-bread, absolutely fucking baguette of a lad from Call Me by Your Name.”

Hints about Irina’s violent past build throughout “Boy Parts,” culminating in the revelation that she once killed a teenage boy, whom she refers to as “my boy.” This pseudo-maternal connection unsettles, as does Irina’s mounting fear that her actions lack consequence or permanence. 

When she returns to the graveyard to dig up the boy’s skull, it is missing; similarly, her confession of murder to the readers is shocking. Disturbingly, readers might initially relate to Irina’s rejection of social norms expected from women. She lives on with apparent normalcy and detached arrogance, despite her horrific past. Her unlikeable personality — carefully curated by an elaborate skincare routine — only amplifies her unsettling character.

The novel dives into Irina’s dark psyche, challenging the reader’s empathy. The revelation of her killing a young boy and her manic search for his missing skull paints a portrait of a protagonist whose traumatic past is as haunting as her present. The line, “nipples and swastikas are chill, but a bit of GHB and self-harm and it’s all ooo, u ok hun?” demonstrates Irina’s derisive approach to social mores, further emphasizing Clark’s commentary on how society processes discomfort selectively.

The narrative’s beauty lies in its ugliness — Clark ensures that readers are never at ease. Even mundane moments, such as Irina detailing her rigorous skincare routine, ooze with an unnerving meticulousness that reflects her inner chaos. The mantra, “Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away,” echoes throughout the book, reminding us of Irina’s motivations and justifications for her increasingly erratic actions. Clark doesn’t let us forget that Irina’s violence is born from pain, blurring the lines between justified outrage and unforgivable action.

Clark’s attention to the protagonist’s identity adds layers to her critique of art and power, underscoring the duality of Irina’s existence. Irina is caught between the gritty streets of Newcastle where she’s “practically middle-class” and the pretentious halls of the London art world where she’s “State-educated, regional accent, a heavy drinker.” This class-based self-awareness amplifies the novel’s punch, showcasing Clark’s skill at making readers see the protagonist as both a product of her environment and a rebellious force against it. 

The novel’s unapologetic nature is encapsulated in Irina’s demand for dominance: “Do I have to smash a glass over the head of every single man I come into contact with, just so I leave a f—ing mark?” This line cuts to the heart of her relentless pursuit for control — a battle she fights through photography that’s less art and more weapon.

“Boy Parts” excels in blending humor with horror, inviting readers to question their reactions to Irina’s behavior. Her sarcastic interactions with the Southern elite — who assume Northern artists scrape by in coal mines — mock the patronizing stereotypes that pervade cultural perceptions. 

The narrative’s most provocative turn is its critique of societal understandings of violence. By juxtaposing Irina’s experiences as both victim and perpetrator, Clark subtly questions the boundaries of solidarity: Can we extend empathy to someone who embodies the very violence they suffered? 

When Irina says, “‘I know that’s what I get from you, table scraps, but because it’s scraps from your table, it’s better than a 3 course meal with someone else,’” she shows a deeply self-aware dependence on control and recognition. This forces the reader to reckon with their own moral boundaries in continuing to follow Irina’s tale.

Clark’s “Boy Parts” is a relentless, darkly funny and provocative piece of fiction that showcases the complexity of female rage, class and identity. Through vivid, unapologetic storytelling, Clark invites readers to peer into the fragmented, chaotic world of Irina Sturges, where nothing is sacred, and everything is up for scrutiny. This intoxicating novel leaves readers with a literary hangover — one that lingers long after the final page.

Editor’s Note: This article is a review and includes subjective thoughts, opinions and critiques.

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