Thirst

Marina Yuszczuk’s new novel, the pensive and erotic Thirst, makes one thing clear: the vampire will always hold an important place in our cultural consciousness. Not just a classic monster, the vampire is a versatile and potent symbol capable of representing whatever we need it to: dangerous sexual potential, parasitic aristocracy or, for Yuszczuk, the radical selfishness of a being who has to destroy to survive. Such urgent necessity erases guilt and self-doubt in favour of the wilful abandonment of self-control, an intoxicating liberation that invites scenes of violent eroticism as lovers become blood-drenched victims.

The story itself is divided between past and present: one half recounts the gothic history of an ancient vampire who flees from Europe in the 19th century and finds herself in the fledgling nation of Argentina, claiming her prey in the shadows of a society plagued by yellow fever. The other half, set in the modern day, is slower, more sombre, as an isolated single mother tries and fails to cope with her mother’s rapidly progressing illness while uncovering a family secret kept for generations. These two figures eventually collide in a Buenos Aires cemetery. In each other, they find something more than survival, something that might allow them both to actually live.

As an avid reader of South American – and especially Argentinian – literature, I was entranced by Yuszczuk’s writing, which captures a century of national transformation within its deeply personal, emotive narrative and delivers a thrilling interpretation of gothic tropes. Her vampire, balanced on a knife’s edge between otherworldly allure and animalistic savagery, duly honours Bram Stoker’s legacy, while striking exciting new ground on the other side of the Atlantic. Although at times Thirst’s divided structure may ask its readers for patience, that commitment will be repaid in kind with the story’s closing pages.