My Friends is one of those books that sneaks up on you. It looks quiet on the surface, but inside it’s full of these huge, complicated feelings—grief, love, fear, hope—the whole messy package of being human. And the way Hisham Matar writes about people just feels true. Not dramatic, not preachy—just real.
What struck me most is how honestly the book talks about growing up and carrying all the emotional bruises from those early years. There’s this idea running through it that our teenage years have to be both “the brightest light and the darkest depths,” and honestly, doesn’t that sum it up perfectly? That weird mix of thinking you’re invincible while also falling apart? Matar gets that.
The book is also full of these little insights that hit harder than you expect. (I had 29 highlights) Things like “being human is to grieve, constantly,” or how “you can choose to be alone, but no one chooses to be left.” Lines that make you pause because they explain things you’ve always felt but never said out loud.
Friendship and love really sit at the heart of this story. The book understands the way those feelings blur together when you’re young—how “friendship and infatuation are the same feeling, light from the same star.” And then there’s the quiet truth that there’s a difference between being loved and being able to receive love. You watch the characters try, fail, try again. It’s messy, but it’s beautiful.
And the way it talks about art? Honestly, that might be my favorite part. One character says “art is coincidence, love is chaos,” and another says he painted “the way we laughed.” There’s something so sweet in that—this idea that art and love and grief are all tangled together. That “art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.”
The book handles family grief with the same tenderness. Losing a parent isn’t painted as a big dramatic event—it’s more like a shift in the ground beneath you. “The basic function of a parent is just to exist… because otherwise your child capsizes.” It’s simple, but it hits deep.
For all its heaviness, the book isn’t bleak. It keeps reminding you that people laugh, even in the middle of heartbreak. There’s a line that says the ending only feels sad “if you forget how many times during this story we’ve told you that someone laughed.” And honestly? That’s what makes it feel real.
My Friends is the kind of book that stays with you. It doesn’t scream; it hums. It’s tender, honest, a little bruised, and incredibly human. Five stars, easily.
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