Sarah, Abraham

 Beneath the outward form of a marriage story, this work relentlessly traces how possession and surveillance, disguised as love, erode a person's humanity. It is a novel that reveals the structure of violence latent beneath the safe surfaces of culture, family, and daily life through a cold and uncanny language of objects. 

Sarah, Abraham is not simply a domestic story about a jealous husband and an exhausted wife. Instead, it offers a sharp anatomy of how surveillance and possession, justified in the names of love, care, and protection, can gradually consume a woman's personhood and the space of her life. Abraham is a man capable of speaking in the public language of culture and feminism, yet in private he never fully recognizes his wife Sarah as an equal subject. The objects he counts, touches, names, and follows are not incidental details but instruments through which pathology and power are disclosed. As the novel moves through ordinary domestic scenes, it steadily slips toward anxiety, compulsion, interrogation, control, and violence. What emerges is not only the breakdown of one marriage, but also a wider structure of distorted relations repeated across generations within the institution of family. Written in a cold and restrained prose where black humor and dread intersect, the work leaves a lasting impression of the violence concealed beneath the surface of cultivated modern life.