Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis
Okay, so I'm half intoxicated while writing this, but honestly, does it not fit the bill?
Like American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis's first novel (written when he was 21, as part of a creative writing thesis after a three-week meth binge, or so they say) is just a disjointed series of shallow hedonistic parties, empty familial relations, and the sort of pervasive existential blurrings that make us wonder whether we're really alive.
Our lead is Clay, someone who lives, drinks, does drugs, fucks, but never feels. His world is shallow, superficial - movie stars and blonde boys dominate the foreground, while thinly veiled depression and inhumanity slink in the background, begging to be noticed, but nobody really cares. Morality is just an option in this world, and everything is relative. Coming home from college, Clay is sucked back in to a meaningless world where inner beauty gets lost in the shuffle, where men fuck men, women fuck men, and who knows what else. It's disorienting but strangely real.
The writing is not as tight as that of American Psycho, but it's all still pretty effin' poignant. Sometimes, when I'm gawking at ten-second porn clips on the internet, I wonder what it would be like to be Clay. Then I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that my life isn't quite as empty as his.
Some pretty hot stuff in this novel, no question, but it isn't quite a masterpiece. My verdict?
:5stars: :3stars:
8/10
...which means that I had a great fucking time reading it, but I wouldn't mark it down as a fave.
Okay, so I'm half intoxicated while writing this, but honestly, does it not fit the bill?
Like American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis's first novel (written when he was 21, as part of a creative writing thesis after a three-week meth binge, or so they say) is just a disjointed series of shallow hedonistic parties, empty familial relations, and the sort of pervasive existential blurrings that make us wonder whether we're really alive.
Our lead is Clay, someone who lives, drinks, does drugs, fucks, but never feels. His world is shallow, superficial - movie stars and blonde boys dominate the foreground, while thinly veiled depression and inhumanity slink in the background, begging to be noticed, but nobody really cares. Morality is just an option in this world, and everything is relative. Coming home from college, Clay is sucked back in to a meaningless world where inner beauty gets lost in the shuffle, where men fuck men, women fuck men, and who knows what else. It's disorienting but strangely real.
The writing is not as tight as that of American Psycho, but it's all still pretty effin' poignant. Sometimes, when I'm gawking at ten-second porn clips on the internet, I wonder what it would be like to be Clay. Then I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that my life isn't quite as empty as his.
Some pretty hot stuff in this novel, no question, but it isn't quite a masterpiece. My verdict?
:5stars: :3stars:
8/10
...which means that I had a great fucking time reading it, but I wouldn't mark it down as a fave.
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