Listening to James Van Der Beek read this was AWESOME. He fit the flat affect of the narrator so well. This will have spoilers, I'm sure.

The first chapter of this book, deconstructing all of Bret Easton Ellis's previous first sentences and relaying a mock-autobiographical set-up for the novel, was GENIUS. Nothing could live up to that for the rest of the book.

In general, I enjoyed the story. The flat affect of the reading and the selfishness of the narrator made me doubt his sincerity in trying to create a loving, connected family. He seemed much more interested in drugs, drinking, and trying to bed that graduate student. So when the plot hinges on the establishment of family and some of the suspense relies on believing this guy that he cares about his kid--that was hard to swallow. I find it hard to believe that BEE the narrator or the person believes that "connection" is the most important thing in life, in spite of the implications of the novel and the interview at the end of the last CD.

I guess just because you start caring too late doesn't mean that you're not devastated when things don't work out. The end with the ashes swirling and the nostalgia for slip-and-slides and the things of childhood rang false to me. After setting up what a rough childhood he'd had and how much his dad had damaged him, it seemed odd for him to re-read that as a happy time, full of nice, bright toys and fun trips. But, I think if I read this as him learning to have compassion for his father in the face of having his own son, I understand better--all those gaps in communication, the resentment, the mutual discomfort. It's hard to stay angry at someone when you finally understand that they were just doing their best, even if their best wasn't good enough.

Not sure I really understand the relationship between the demon, the house, the dad/ghost, the terby, Clayton/Robbie/Bret, Patrick Bateman, and Robbie's disappearance. A complicated web that does not necessarily cohere. I guess some forces were working for the narrator, some against. I thought the disappearing boys part was very interesting and unique, and I wanted to know the details on that. But that's kind of the point: we, who are left on this side, don't get to know.

Absorbing and experimental, Lunar Park is a fusion of memoir and illusion. The best park of this is the difference is unclear. The narrator (Ellis himself) is unreliable--not necessarily because he's lying to us, but because he is so haunted that his delusions are questionable. This sort of balance provides the most gripping of horror stories, making Lunar Park a true gem. I won't be so quick to categorize this in the horror genre, though. Reviewers seem to place it in the likes of a Stephen King novel, and while there might be similarities, the style is a completely different approach.

In the beginning, Ellis recollects his past, much of which is a blur of fame and drugs. He references his previous works--not because he's promoting them, but because they frame and reflect his life. Part of the novel's design is Bret Easton Ellis as a writer vs. his other identities, with the writer side wanting to create and the other side just striving to be good. The book shifts into the present, where Ellis marries the mother of his son and begins a suburban life. This new life, while ideal on the outside, is tortured with ghosts and mysteries. Local boys are missing. A toy seems to come to life. Someone keeps rearranging his furniture. He's getting blank bank statements at the same time of night that his father passed away.

One challenge for any writer is to make the reader interested in extremely flawed characters, or to root for the bad guy. Bret Easton Ellis is an expert at this. He doesn't try to paint a charming reflection of himself; he lets you know that he's been selfish, irresponsible, and pretentious. Yet the character is so interesting that you want to read about him and be on his side.

NO book has ever (EVER ) pulled such powerful emotion out of me. ( I won't say 'which' emotion...it's a surprise.)

NON APRITE QUELLA PORTA



Lui è un io-narrante. E si chiama Bret Ellis. Forse in mezzo c’è anche Easton, non lo si dice, ma neppure lo si esclude.
Per le prime pagine Bret, il lui, l’io-narrante, elenca i libri che ha scritto, commentandoli, Meno di zero, Le regole dell’attrazione, American Psycho ecc., raccontandone gloria fama successo guadagni.
Dopo un po’ si parla di giovani adolescenti scomparsi: qui sembrano essere soprattutto maschi, di là soprattutto femmine. Bret ne legge sui giornali, si tiene informato, anche se sono notizie che gli causano brividi di paura e attacchi di panico.
Ma c’è molto probabilmente anche un serial killer che si aggira nella zona, non è interessato agli adolescenti, ma potrebbe aver puntato Bret.
E qualcuno manda strani segnali-messaggi, alquanto inquietanti, e forse è lo stesso che si diverte a spostare i mobili di casa.
Chiaramente bisogna sospettare di un maschio: lo spesso velo (vello?) di misoginia di Bret impedisce che ci sia una colpevole, sempre e solo maschi.
Sembra di aver riaperto Le schegge.



È sempre lui, il solito Bret che ho imparato a conoscere: cinico, sferzante, saccente, presuntuosello. Conosce tutta la musica, ogni canzone, e anche il rispettivo video, e ricorda i testi a memoria. Conosce i film e li cita in libertà, dialoghi inclusi. Conosce la letteratura. La pubblicità. I notiziari. Sembra vivere con le antenne tese a captare ogni minimo movimento o accenno di. Questa volta c’è meno sesso, e meno pornografia, e anche meno elenchi di abiti firmati.
Conosce molto bene la farmacologia, se non altro alla voce psicofarmaci, c’è di che farsi una cultura sull’argomento. E il lettore apprende che bambini e adolescenti negli Stati Uniti ne sono imbottiti: per placare la loro ansia, per tenerli buoni e mai iperattivi, per stordirli e renderli gestibili. Si consiglia yoga e terapia antistress già dall’età di tre anni.
Bret beve e pippa. Non solo cocaina, alterna le sostanze, naturali e sintetiche, mischia, sballa. Mentre ingurgita psicofarmaci a manciate, è una farmacia ambulante. E beve vodka nascondendola nella tazza del caffè, anche liscia a temperatura ambiente (da non fare mai, neppure sotto tortura)



Questa volta è sposato e ha due figli: il maggiore è un maschio, ed è proprio figlio suo, dna del suo dna, un errore di undici anni prima che ha cercato di tenere a distanza, ma poi è rimasto intrappolato nel matrimonio con sua madre – ovviamente una ex modella, ora starlette del cinema, bomba sexy – la quale ha una figlia minore (sei anni) da un altro uomo, e Bret fa da papà anche a questa. Facile immaginare che padre possa essere. Irriverente, per essere magnanimi.
E quindi Bret a questo giro è soprattutto etero. O bi. Ma di maschi e culi e cazzi da succhiare racconta meno del solito.
Soprattutto a differenziarsi da Le schegge è la temperatura: qui più bassa, più fredda, più cool. Come se la sua storia potesse essere una burla (e principalmente per questo motivo, cinque stelle di gradimento all’altro e quattro a questo)



Poi, verso la fine, la temperatura sale, si scalda.
E nonostante ci dica e dichiari che American Psycho è una colossale metafora, Patrick Bateman, il protagonista, incarna suo padre, con la sua rabbia, la sua ossessione per la ricchezza, la sua solitudine, e comunque Patrick Bateman era un narratore inattendibile, ed è chiaro che i delitti lì descritti erano immaginari e non realmente accaduti, esistevano solo nella mente di Bateman, gli omicidi e le torture erano in realtà fantasie ispirate dalla sua cieca rabbia contro lo stile di vita americano che – malgrado la ricchezza accumulata – l’aveva intrappolato… era un libro sulla società e sui suoi usi e costumi, non un manuale su come fare a pezzi le donne - e comunque quel libro aveva soprattutto a che fare con lo “stile” - Patrick Bateman sembra ritornare anche in queste pagine, qualcuno che si identifica con Patrick Bateman, o che è Patrick Bateman, tenta in queste pagine di trasformare la realtà nel libro che Bret ha scritto anni prima e che lo ha coperto d’oro e fama e successo.
E dopo fenomeni paranormali e parapsicologici, esorcismi, fantasmi e demoni e poltergeist e deliri e sangue e orrore e thriller…: forse no, non c’è nessun Patrick Bateman in queste pagine. E anche se Bret appare particolarmente scosso e impaurito e fuori di balcone, al punto da sdoppiarsi e andarsene in giro sia come Bret sia come lo scrittore Bret, questo Lunar Park è una lunga meditazione sul potere della letteratura e su dove vanno i personaggi delle storie dopo che sono stati scritti, su come possano tornare a complicare la vita dei loro creatori.
Oppure, si tratta di un gigantesco inno alla figura paterna, all’archetipo del padre, e, quindi anche del figlio?

This is a great book by a fine writer.

It's also very odd, a bit post-modern, kind of a cheesy homage to Stephen King, and maybe a little disappointing in its purposeful lack of resolution.
It was a surprise from its excellent self-deprecating memoir start to its introspective allegorical finish, with some moments of genius interspersed with moments when I wondered if "satire" wasn't Ellis' euphemism for "cliche". You get a sense that the author and protagonist struggle with deep meaning, and this is both its grace and its minor pathos.

What I just wrote sounds pretty pretentious, but it's as if I can't describe it more simply, and this is because I think with Ellis what you get is a seriously-good literary writer, writing very readable novels, but with a slightly truculent and sneering attitude towards the whole endeavour. Even so, Ellis uses this book to ridicule himself for doing just that, and shows how complex and deep his regrets are about his writing and about growing up, or failing to do so.

Well worth your time. Somebody, read this and then please do me a big favour and explain the f*cking thing to me.

3.5 stars rounded down for steeply falling off after the midway mark. The first half was real funny, tons of LOLs, totally audacious comedy masquerading as autofiction masquerading as Hamlet-referencing horror. But then the language and insights and humor fell away in favor of just-the-facts one-line-per-paragraph plot execution. Lack of plot in BEE's first three novels totally works -- but this one's self-consciously consumed by its outline (his narrator even refers to the "writer" who would otherwise fill out certain spare plotty bits). Ultimately, a totally audacious, intentionally uneven, easy-reading take on one writer's serious daddy issues (and some good thoughts re: writing, fame, drugs/addiction, kids, and a very funny bit re: bachelorhood etc). A bit of a disappointment for me, but an excellent example of writing that refuses "to embrace the mechanics of East Coast lit conventionality" while nevertheless being published by Random House's high-end literary outfit. Also interesting in terms of how it joyously loads up a tall sacrificial pyre of supernatural, irreal, and metafictional aspects instead of observing the rule to only introduce a single fantastic element and keep everything else realistic, a la Kafka. But in the end, even if pulling off the mask of good writing thematically associates with pulling off masks of fame or notoriety or layers of emotionlessness related to one's angry upbringing, it didn't make for much more than stripped-down reading that made the author's possibly earnest revelations re: family and father and self etc -- no matter how "hard won" or serious -- seem as cheap to me as the intentionally unwriterly language. But, for fans, the first chapter or so where he summarizes his career is deliciously funny and pretty much worth the sticker price.

Lunar Park llegó muy bien recomendado a mis manos, pero la precedente media lectura de Psicópata Americano no me dejaba aproximarme a la última novela de Bret Easton Ellis sin resquemores y recelos. Pero yo soy insistente y me gustan los retos.

Es bueno leer Lunar Park sin saber nada del libro ni del autor. Pero Bret es ya autor de culto así que supongo que muy pocas personas llegarán a leerlo vírgenes. Digamos que yo con Bret tuve unos escarceos que no pasaron de los previos con Psicópata, así que con Lunar estaba casi pura. Por lo tanto, para quien no ha leído nada de Bret le recomiendo que lea de inmediato Lunar Park sin leer una sola línea de las que vienen a continuación y se hagoa solito su propia opinión.

El principal gancho y atractivo de Lunar es su archicitadas influencias autobiográficas.

Lo confieso: llegó una parte del libro en que me puse a investigar sobre Bret para ver qué era cierto y qué no, y quiénes eran quiénes. Para mi fue divertidísimo descubrí algunas cosas morbosas de la vida de Bret que a la final no le pusieron ni le quietaron nada al libro en sí mismo. No pierdo de vista que es un comportamiento obsesivo y necio; porque ¡vamos es una novela! ¿qué importa dónde empieza la realidad y dónde termina la ficción? Pero este es el primer aspecto empírico de Lunar Park.

Por allí leí que este aspecto autobiografico-ficción es llamado “metalectura” y me parece que le va el término.

Pero, creo yo, que el mayor atributo de esta novela es esa propiedad sagrada que tienen algunos libros de no dejarse soltar.

Lunar Park se le pega a uno en las manos. Yo me encerraba en el baño para que me dejaran leerla en paz, ojo que la leía también fuera del baño: caminando, en el metro, al medio día en el almuerzo, antes de dormir porque Lunar tiene un ritmo magnifico que va de interesante, entretenido, curioso a vertiginoso.

Por último Lunar Park da miedo, pero del sabroso.

Tengo que enfatizar que esta es una experiencia absolutamente subjetiva y depende claro de que le libro de verdad me gustó y me dejé enganchar en el ambiente que construye el autor, seguro que hay miles de personas que ni sentirán coquito; pero yo sí me crispé en su debido momento, y ¡eso no tiene precio! Para todo lo demás existe Mastercard.

En total tenemos una novela – que evidentemente está escrita a la perfección – que se publica en un momento estratégico de la vida del autor después de ocho años de su último libro, que te engancha prometiéndote escandalosas revelaciones de su vida, que luego te confunde al empezar a enredarse con personajes de otros libros y personajes de la vida real cuyo ritmo se centra en las patologías más temidas de las relaciones padre-hijo y creador-creatura, que te pone de punta con unos acontecimientos que desbocan en absurdos, sobrenaturales y aterrorizantes; y termina cerrando como Diox manda – es que estas obras tan ambiciosas terminan poniendo al torta al final – con un capitulo emotivo que no es lo que parece ni está dirigido a quien se dirige.

Cito al Blog Sueños a Pila “Y Lunar Park guarda lo mejor para el final: las últimas 14 páginas conforman uno de los mejores finales alguna vez escritos. Y el libro termina pero no, perdón, esos libros con finales así no terminan nunca. Se convierten en epifanía pura.”

Es hacia el final donde se puede percibir el tono realmente “personal” del libro que más allá de una realidad tangible se dirige hacia una realidad profundamente humana y emotiva que el autor sabe aprovechar en pro de alguna “redención” pendiente que es solicitada.

Demonios, acabo de encontrar una reseña mejor que la mía en Página12y en LeerGratishay una reseña donde no le echan tantas flores; siempre es bueno leer a los detractores.

There’s a story behind the film Adaptation: scriptwriter Charlie Kaufman had a hard time adapting The Orchid Thief, so what did he do? He wrote a film about him having a hard time adapting The Orchid Thief, writing himself into the script, creating for himself a twin brother, dedicating the finished piece to the sibling who didn’t exist. Author Bret Easton Ellis, creator of American Psycho and other “transgressive” novels, wrote himself into his novel Lunar Park, conjuring for himself a family, a film actress wife, a quiet neighborhood in the suburbs, a son. A series of brutal murders, a haunting, a loss. I write stories but I could never imagine writing myself into one of them, even as an exercise. Of course every writer writes himself into his stories, his fears, his joys, but how terrifying to see your own name on a page, to see yourself as a fictional character running away from fictional horrors. Honesty can be very frightening, so with Lunar Park Ellis was being very brave. Ian McEwan asks, How can a novelist find atonement when, in his novels, he is God? But Ellis found atonement. There was one long passage in the novel that ends with From those of us who are left behind: you will be remembered, you were the one I needed, I loved you in my dreams. Writing these words, would it be too much to say that Ellis found freedom? Perhaps, upon finishing the novel, he had forgiven everyone and everything that had to be forgiven, and in the process also found absolution.

I think this is a remarkable book.

So I've spent this year developing a love/hate relationship with Bret Easton Ellis' work. I don't understand why his books fascinate me or even why they work as compelling fiction, yet I keep reading them because his voice is so distinct. Disturbing, empty, and shallow most of the time, but distinct. Then along comes Lunar Park. I spent 90% of the book hating it, wondering why I was still reading it, and then found the ending beautiful. No. Really. I didn't think Ellis could write something that would fit under my (admittedly very personal) definition of "beautiful" anything. Knowing he wrote this before Imperial Bedrooms (see my two word review for my opinion on that one) renders it even more puzzling. Oh whatever. Obviously I can't articulate the feelings finishing this book has aroused. I liked it. I don't know why.

Kändes litegrann som ”halloweenavsnittet” i en tv-serie

I once had a book entitled something such as "100 Books to Read Before You Die." I don't recall the title really, but the author did some math using the average time it takes to read a book, and the multiplied that by the number of days you have to live if you're age is 20, 30, 40, etc. and then arrived at an estimate of how many books you can read in your remaining life. So, for example, if I'm 50 and live 25 more years maybe I'll read 200 more books. (What's he's saying here is "Choose wisely. Don't read crap.") That's 8 per year on average, which is probably fairly accurate since I'm a slow reader, I don't finish a lot of the books I start because I lose interest, and because I'm not a continuous reader like some--I'm a continual reader. This means I don't read books non-stop, finish a book, go to take a pee or grab a beer and my next book, and start read the next in line. I finish a book and then I might not start another one for a few days or a few weeks, but eventually I will. That's the difference between the words continuous and continual by the way. I learned that by reading a book. Continuous means unending, like the flow of a river. Continual means unending but with occasional stops, like eating or rain or whatever. It's sort of like the difference between sensuous and sensual. No. Actually, it's not like that at all. Not even close. Especially not in the "Animal House" sense, which is where I learned the difference between the two words. Sensuous just means appeals to the senses. Wow, that was a sensuous sunset. Sensual is like one of those portmanteau words made from sensuous and sexual. Wow, that was a sensual dance i.e. it made me think of sex. So what's the point of all this? You've just spent 3 minutes of your life reading about the definitions of words (I wanted you to get at least something for your time), when you could have spent those 3 minutes reading a good book. I spent some number of hours (too many) reading this book and I don't feel like I got my money's worth. Could I go back in time I would have chosen a different book. Stephen King said of Ellis' much-adored-by-horror-fans "American Psycho" it was a [boring book written by a good writer]. I would agree with that in this case too, except I didn't really feel like he was that good of a writer (I liked "Less Than Zero," but for different reasons.) Somewhere in the last few pages Ellis says he's learned something about "how lonely people make life" and then "that a family - if you allow it - gives you joy, which in turn gives you hope." Yeah. Whatever. That's depressing, not scary.

The quality curve of this book, I'm afraid, is pretty much a line head straight down at a 45 degree angle. The opening is so inventive and fun, and there really is a lot of interesting and creepy stuff happening in the early going. But the second half of the book is just a mess, never resolving anything (but not in a cool way) and ultimately devolving into the author just speaking to you in his own voice (but not in a moving way). A lot of squandered potential.