After reading this book I've come to the following conclusion: When people say that they only have time for movies, not books, they need to read a different type of book.

Sex in the City (the book) took me about 2.5 hours to read, the same time as a longish movie and I learned about as much as I do from a chick flick. It's rather obvious when you think about it. A cheesy chick movie like How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days is neither deep nor revelatory, complicated or precise. Bushnell's work reminds me of a watered-down Edith Warton novel filled with caricatures of people that seem like they were modeled after a real-world version. But then again, what author doesn't fashion their characters after real people?

Bushnell's journalistic talent is obvious. She throws out turns of phrase that any newspaper editor would salivate for and the story whips and turns at the pace of a race horse. However, I would argue that the book lacks some focus and seems to sprawl from one character to the next (but then again, that may be because I started to skim at some point.)

I respect her work as a writer and pioneer of chick-lit, but at the same time I'm always left a little bit disatistifed. Good thing I didn't see the movie--yet.

Candace Bushnellin kirjoittama Sinkkuelämää sijoittuu New Yorkiin, ja se kertoo kolmekymppisten yli-ikäisen pissisten pimboiluista ja sekstailuista. Kirja aloittaa moniosaisen Sinkkuelämää-sarjan, josta on väännetty myös pari leffaa ja tv-sarja, jota tähdittää mm. Sarah Jessica Parker.

Bushnellin kirjasarja perustui alkujaan tekijänsä laatimaan kolumnisarjaan, jossa aiheena oli lähinnä seksi ja miesten vonkaaminen mitä erilaisimmin keinoin. Kankeasti kirjoitettu ja osin melko tökerösti suomennettu hömppäkirja kertoo lähinnä päähenkilön näkökulmasta (Carrie, jonkinlainen journalisti) ja hänen kaverikolmikkonsa pliisuista orgioista, pilvenpoltosta, viinanjuonnista ja ekstaasin napostelusta. Muita frendejä ovat Miranda, kaapelifirman pomo, Sarah, oman firman johtaja ja Belle, naimisissa oleva pankkinainen.

Mukana on siis tekoviihdyttävää pehmopornoa, jota jäystetään lähinnä viinalasien äärellä ja ravintolassa ruokaillessa. Tällöin juoruillaan, kuka oli kenenkin kanssa ja millä tavalla. Esikaupunkia pidetään tylsänä ”vaimolandiana” ja rumilukset, siis ei mallit, ovat näiden (ja ”mallinkaatajien”) mielestä vain ”siviilejä”. Tavoitteena on maata rikkaiden ja kuuluisien miesten kanssa ja välttää kaiken maailman ”urpoja ja nössöjä”.

Vaikka (usein kertojana toimiva) Carrie makasi yksikseen muutama vuosi sitten köyhänä rupisella vaahtomuovipatjallaan surkeassa yksiössä, hän on päässyt ”Kihon” lakanoihin piehtaroimaan, matkailemaan mm. Aspeniin muun pinnallisen (mukamas)jetsetin kanssa.

HBO:n viihdesarjaa on muokattu melko rankasti ainakin tämän kirjan perusteella, eikä tässä ole aikaa shoppailla petipuuhien, juoruilun ja muun sekoilun lisäksi.

Loppuun on vielä tyrkätty turha epilogi, jossa nostetaan esille muutamia muita romaanissa vilahteita ja (kulahtaneita) miestenjahtaajia.

The first I feel that the filmed version transcends the written one.

The most impersonal read of my life. Nothing to like, nothing to dislike; easy to read, impossible to care. A totally blank experience, therefore, no rating.

I don't know what was more interesting: reading this book or reading the reviews for this book. They break into roughly two camps:

- This book is bad because I picked it up expecting it to be exactly the same as the TV series which I am completely obsessed with beyond all reason
- This book is bad because it conflicts with my fantasy of what being rich, being single, and living in New York must be like. I will refer to these people as "stereotypes" even though I've never actually been to New York during the period in question.

That's not to say this book is GOOD. This book is ... okay. It's a good subway read. Most of the good stories are spoiled by the TV series, which may take something out of it.

At the same time, I liked this book because it felt more raw and real than it's adaptation. Carrie in the TV show is whiney, codependent, obsessive and insecure. Her narrative constantly tries to pass off her narcissism as empowerment (oh sure, breaking up with your boyfriend on the way to the St. Barts was about "having faith in yourself" not at all about trying to emotionally blackmail him. Keep telling yourself that). Every time someone in the cult of Sex and the City describes themselves as a "Carrie" I want to hunt them down with a shotgun. It's appalling to me that people seem to think this character is some kind of role model.

But... not really surprising, because in the TV series Carrie's bad behavior is consequence free. She's always shown as the wronged party, living a life of relative leisure and successful in all her endeavors. If she does fail it's only in the most charming way with everyone dropping everything to fawn over her. The only time I ever liked Charlotte as a character was when she finally called Carrie on her bullshit and straight up told her "It's not my job to fix your finances" ... of course the show ruins that moment by having Charlotte recant everything in the name of friendship by the end of the episode.

It also really bothered me that the show didn't make more of an effort to explore the relationship of Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda with each other. We're supposed to believe that these four people are all good friends, and yet they only really exist as an extension of Carrie's needs. No wonder Carrie is a narcissist.

Imagine my surprise when I start reading this book and find a Carrie who is real, compelling and kind of badass.

You know Candace Bushnell is not really a great writer. I don't think that will surprise anyone. There were times, especially towards the end, where I felt like I was reading bad fanfic: no description, no narrative, just an endless list of actions. Carrie cries, Mr Big smokes his cigar, Skipper runs over a Serbian hooker.... blah blah blah.

Some will find this book too light on character development, but I always thought that was a pretty insane thing to expect from NONFICTION. How would you feel if your friend was not only publishing stories about your sexual liaisons but also ascribing motives to your action which millions of readers would treat as fact? If you want the trappings of fiction, read fiction. There are thousands of struggling novelists hoping you will.

Anyway.

Unlike TV Carrie, Book Carrie is never portrayed as anything other than a complete disaster of a human being. The first time we meet her she's described point blank as an alcoholic and a bitch. She smokes an ungodly amount of pot. She has a flock of twenty-something girls who worship her but who she publicly despises. She is snarky and cynical.

But most importantly the book doesn't pretend that everything is going to turn out all right for her in the end. The exact opposite actually. Plenty of designer brands are name dropped, Big and Carrie have a house in the Hamptons, vacation in St Barts, get all adorable skiing in Aspen. All the trappings of the rich fantasy the TV series perfected are there, but this version of it is like TV-Carrie's New York Magazine "Thirty and Fabulous?" cover. It's ugly. It has consequences. Money and self-centeredness do not make people happy.

In the last chapter of the book Carrie goes off to visit her friend Amalita Amalfi. Fans of the show will remember her as the international playgirl who introduces Carrie to the idea of being a kept woman. The book starts off with more or less the same storyline, but doesn't white wash it the way the TV show does. In the show Amalita effortlessly glides from man to man, traveling the world, being spoiled with expensive presents. In the book Amalita travels the world, get spoiled with expensive presents but ends up alone, living in a disgusting $500/mo apartment, with a young daughter she is unable to take care of.

That to me is a whole lot more interesting than the pink sparkly special snowflake bullshit the show tries to push down our throats.

OK, this book doesn't probably deserve even one star. Not from me, anyway. I know, I know - the book that inspired one of my favorite shows of all time is supposed to be completely different, a collection of column entries, a haphazard look at approximately a thousand characters' lives in the Big Apple, etc., etc., etc., blah, blah blah. As such, it might work for some. As such, it might be found funny by the most unsentimental and cynical audience. As for me, it just left me depressed. It left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. It left me with an aching heart for the human condition of love, relationships, and romance. This book literally drained me of happiness for the amount of time that it took me to read it. I did not find it in the least bit amusing nor clever in any way. I found it completely exhausting. And I am saying this after I objectively went into reading it, with no intention of comparing it to my beloved show. On its own, this book is as close to trash as it gets. If it wasn't for the masterpiece of a show that it apparently "inspired," it would have stayed in the trashcan. Even looking at the show and the novel separately, I just have one thing to say - the novel does NOT even come close to being (and does NOT even come close to HOPING to be) as good as the HBO show of the same name. Period.

Read this after seeing the TV show in my late teens. It's nothing like the show - not a great read.

DNF at page 104

I'm sorry...
But...
Just... No...

gosh this book was so poorly written and didn’t really have a plot?? it was a big waste of my time & i only finished it because wanted to be able to mark it as read on here. i’m not even sure how the tv show came from this??

This was ridiculous. It was incredibly self-indulgent and trite. It's incredible that someone read this collection of articles and said, "Hey! Let's turn this into a wildly funny, intelligent, and timely series that will win Emmys and Jill's Heart!" Avoid the book, rent the series.

wait why did no one tell me this is actually really good

As much as I enjoyed the show, I never intended to read the book, until I discovered that it is classified as nonfiction. That revelation surprised me, and I was further intrigued to know it's a collection of essays. That, as Bushnell might say, sealed the deal.

But what a peculiar collection! The early chapters remind me of nothing so much as Tom Wolfe -- a seen-it-all journalist romanticizing the epic madness of her zeitgeist. This approach is so distinctly 90s that I both rolled my eyes and felt intense nostalgia the same time. I was not, at the time, a single girl roaming Manhattan, but a teenager growing up in the freewheeling state of Vermont. Our lives were different, but I instantly recognized in her writing the celebration of chaos and energy -- the pre-millennial neurosis that made us all a little nuts.

But the book takes some time to figure itself out. The earlier pieces behave like cover stories to New York Magazine; a big, glossy, hey-girl-let-me-tell-you style that almost makes you laugh. Then, slowly, it diverges from its profiles and reportage and becomes a kind of confessional diary, albeit written in the removed third-person of a made-up character, Carey Bradshaw. And here I start to get skeptical.

The artistic half of my brain is perfectly fine with her impressionistic, largely invented version of events, just as I excuse Sedaris and Burroughs their glaring fabrications. I even accepted that soap opera is just a part of the New York lifestyle, even though her characters failed to interest me overall. The HBO series presents these dramas with seasoned and collaborative proficiency. The book, in its second-half, feels like an ironically dumbed down transcript of the show.

This effect is a disservice to the first half, which is riveting. "Carey's" visit to a sex club is clumsy, overprotective, and hilarious, proving that however free-thinking New Yorkers perceive themselves, you can't just throw any old orgy in the era of HIV. The profile of models (and their wealthy seducers) is sexist in the most primal sense; wealthy men prey on very young, very beautiful women with no serious education or reliable social network. The models weather men the way Florida weathers hurricanes, and if they're lucky and tough, they become famous and marry up. Bushnell almost seems to shrug her shoulders at this tragic dynamic, a response that, in this context, I prefer to melodramatic indignity. The game is as old as time, she implies, and in New York, the laws of the jungle reign über alles.

At this stage in my life, the chapter I enjoyed the least but hit closest to home was "Carrie's" visit to the suburbs. She condescends to her housewife friends, for their hypocrisy and stilted expectations. The catty, double bladed dialogue is inherently uncomfortable, but it's something my girlfriend and I face all the time. Sometimes, the Joneses don't realize you have no interest in keeping up with them, which makes their boasting twice as tedious.

"Can we go back to the city now?" Carrie begs.

How many times, stuck in the formless slush of Bucks County or Silver Spring or the North Hills, have I thought those very words?