As a writer, I am drawn to stories that explore family, identity, and the passage of time. Justin Torres’s We the Animals (Mariner Books, 2012) is one such book that continues to inspire me with its lyrical style and bold structural choices.
I first encountered this novel in graduate school, where I was wowed by its shifts in time and narration.
Revisiting it now, I am struck by how Torres uses these techniques to mirror emotional arcs—a new writing lesson I want to carry into my own fiction.
Time shifts: Fluid beginnings and abrupt leaps
Most of We the Animals takes place during the narrator’s early childhood, when life feels immediate and chaotic. Time moves fluidly, with transitions that feel natural and even poetic.
For example, when the narrator tells us, “Paps disappeared for a while, and Ma stopped showing up for work…” (30), we sense the passage of time without losing continuity. These smooth shifts immerse us in the boys’ world, making the abrupt leaps toward the novel’s end all the more jarring.
Take the section toward the end of the novel, when Torres compresses years into a few pages, leaping forward without warning. The boys are no longer children, and the narration shifts from the collective “we” to the distant “they” and “I.”
This break mirrors the narrator’s growing emotional distance from his brothers and family. It highlights his isolation and sets the stage for the identity crisis that follows.
Structure as a tool for emotional impact
These changes in time and the way they relate to the characters got me thinking about structure:
Torres’s narrative choices underscore critical moments in the story. By making the shifts in time and narration abrupt, he forces readers to feel the emotional rupture that the narrator experiences.
The novel’s climactic moment—the narrator’s break from his family—is amplified by these shifts. It’s a reminder that structure isn’t just about form; it’s a tool to deepen emotional resonance.
So what about the ending?
Wrapping things up without tying the bow
Unlike traditional story structures, We the Animals resists neat conclusions. After the dramatic climax, the final chapters offer a sense of winding down, but not resolution.
The chapter “Dawn” reveals the fractured intimacy left in the wake of the narrator’s break with his family. The final chapter, “Zookeeping,” provides an ending that is open-ended and evocative, leaving readers to interpret the narrator’s declaration: “Upright, upright” (125).
Lessons from fiction: Reading like a writer
I think that one of the most powerful ways we can grow as writers is to study how other authors use craft to shape their stories.
We the Animals offers rich opportunities to analyze the impact of time shifts, narrative structure, and open-ended conclusions.
Here are some prompts I created to help me think more critically about the book and these narrative techniques so I can apply them to my writing (and maybe you can use them in your writing life!):
Shifts in Time and Narration: Torres uses abrupt shifts in time and perspective to mirror emotional distance and personal transformation. How do these shifts impact the experience of the reader? How might you experiment with similar techniques in your writing to create emotional depth?
Brevity and Impact: At just over 100 pages, We the Animals is a short novel with a significant emotional punch. Does its brevity strengthen the story’s impact? What would be gained—or lost—by expanding certain moments, such as the climax or the ending?-
Interpretation of the Ending: The final chapter, “Zookeeping,” invites readers to interpret the narrator’s statement, “Upright, upright” (125). What are some approaches to endings (e.g., open-ended, resolved, something in between) and what different opportunities do they create for reader interpretation?
These questions aren’t only about analyzing Torres’s choices—they’re an invitation to think about our own approaches to structure, narration, and storytelling.
At just 138 pages, We the Animals is a slim novel. But I think it carries a weight that belies its page count. Its structural daring and emotional honesty offer invaluable lessons for writers and readers alike.
I'm curious: What books have taught you about using form to enhance meaning? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Peace & plenty,
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