“Nessuno parla di niente in particolare e nessuno sembra preoccupato per questo, io almeno no. Mio padre racconta che uno dei suoi soci in affari è appena morto di cancro al pancreas e mia madre racconta che una sua conoscente, una con cui gioca a tennis, ha avuto una mastectomia. Mio padre ordina un’altra bottiglia - la terza? La quarta? - e parla di un affare che sta concludendo. La più grande delle mie sorelle sbadiglia, tormenta l’insalata. Penso a Blair tutta sola nel suo letto ad accarezzare quello stupido gatto nero e al cartellone con la scritta Sparire Qui, e allo sguardo di Julian, e chissà se Julian è in vendita. Penso alla gente che ha paura di buttarsi, e alla piscina di notte, con l’acqua luminosa che brilla in giardino.”

Sei un genio, Bret.

Sono certa di averlo letto quando è uscito (1986? 87?) ma non me ne è rimasta memoria alcuna. Fa parte del lotto dei "giovani autori americani" che la Pivano traghettò e incensò ravvisandovi tanti nuovi piccoli Hemingway. Abbaglio non indifferente, visto che poi ci hanno ammorbato tanti altri autori della medesima taglia del titolo.

Anyway, riletto (anzi mollato a metà) incuriosita dalla lettura di una pseudo-autobiografia dello stesso BEE (a sua volta lettura risibile, se non per qualche passaggio meglio riuscito).

Rientra nel novero (con la pseudo bio) delle robe che leggo quando mi sveglio insonne alle 4 della mattina e pesco a caso dal kindle.

Así me siento yo cuando tengo que volver a mi pueblo en el verano. Igual menos extremo, pero se entiende.

Este libro no diría que es particularmente "bueno", aunque tiene algo. Me dejó en un trance. Del autor de American Psycho, es su novela debut y la escribió a los 21 años, y se nota bastante. PERO me gustó y lo disfruté muchísimo más que el anterior mencionado. Es muy simple en algunas partes, no pasa nada muy extremo hasta casi el final. Diría que es uno de esos libros que son "no plot just vibes" (las vibras bajisímas, por el subsuelo).

Bret Easton Ellis sabe muy bien cómo escribir la desconexión y la disociación de la realidad. Nuestro protagonista está menos que cero, literalmente. Además su estilo me recuerda mucho a otros autores que también me encantan, como Dennis Cooper y Rŷu Murakami. En resumen me volví fan de este autor (aunque todavía tengo mis problemas con American Psycho). Y no es para todo el mundo tampoco.

Ο Ellis χρησιμοποιεί αυτοβιογραφικά στοιχεία και γράφει ένα από τα πιο σκληρά και, ενδεχομένως, σοκαριστικά μυθιστορήματα για την γενιά των '80ς αποδομώντας την κουλτούρα των 'γιάπις', το 'Αμερικάνικο Όνειρο', αλλά και το μόττο 'Πατρίς, Θρησκεία, Οικογένεια', το οποίο εξέφραζε ένα μεγάλο μέρος της δεκαετίας.

Όλοι οι ήρωες είναι δέσμιοι του αχαλίνωτου clubbing, του ευκαιριακού σεξ, της 'εύκολης΄χρήσης ναρκωτικών, αλλά καί της διαστροφής και της κραιπάλης σε όλα τα επίπεδα.

Πολλοί αναγνώστες θα αναρωτηθούν αν ο Έλλις είναι ο αντίστοιχος 'Φράνσις Σκοτ Φιτστζέραλντ' της δεκαετίας του '80, γιατί, συγκρίνοντας τη δεκαετία του '20 με τη δεκαετία του '80, η αλήθεια είναι ότι προκύπτουν κάποιες ομοιότητες, όσον αφορά τις υπερβολές στη διασκέδαση και τις καταχρήσεις με πάντα έκδηλη την εξωστρέφεια στις κοινωνικές σχέσεις, αλλά και την εκκεντρικότητα.

Ναί, τελικά, τότε, για ένα μεγάλο μέρος των ευκατάστατων οικογενειών στα πλούσια προάστια της Καλιφόρνια η ζωή ήταν 'λιγότερο από μηδέν'.

Βαθμολογία: 3,9/5 ή 7,8/10.

Scritto molto molto bene ma decisamente non il mio genere

Rich kids doing drugs. Ugh.
Actually, my view of this book was kind of distorted by this man I used to work with at this coffee shop.
He was a huge fan if this author. And he was also a writer himself (published in Hustler!). He was in his 40's and still trying to break out. He had a son that was autistic and had tons of medical bills but because he still wanted to be a struggling artist his family had to suffer.
So, he gives me the manuscript of one of his books (that was rejected by several publishers because, as he stated, "It was too cutting edge").
It was is a super bad version of less that zero but really really raunchy and dirty and goobity gobbledy goo.

He was also always quoting Dante's Inferno, but he only knew one line about all ye who enter here or whatever.
And he would always come into work an hour early and work off the clock so he could have everything already done before his shift started. It pissed me off so I started to make sure everything was done before he got there so he had nothing to do for an hour before his shift began.
Sure, it created extra work for me but the satisfaction was worth it. That showed him.
Once, I was taking out the trash and he comes up and grabs it out of my hands and I was infuriated. I know he was just trying to be a gentleman or some shit but I ran after him and snatched it back out of his hands and snarled "I can take my own damn trash out!"
He would also refer to all our cups in Starbuck's sizes (tall, grande, and something else) and that pissed me off because we didnt work at Starbucks!
He also thought this chick that we worked with was "deep"
because she said she liked some classic author.
And the girl was a fucking moron. Trust me, if anyone was fucking deep in that coffee shop it was ME. And that is not saying a whole lot. She would talk in this cartoon voice all day long and I wanted to stab her. There is nothing worse that having to spend an 8 hour shift with another adult that talks in a baby voice on purpose.
I think she even believed in "God".
And he also bragged that his daughter memorized the letter from Hannibal Lector wrote to Clarice in 'Silence of the Lambs'. or whatever.
We also had a chat about how everyone has an little OCD.
His was coming to work an hour early and many other things.
And I was all like "I never do anything regularly, I hate repetition."
And he was all like, "That's your OCD, you are obsessed with irregularity!" (true, but not when it comes to bowel movements)
And he kind of convinced me that everyone in Hudson, Ohio is on drugs and screwing one another (fact).

So of course, I read his book thing aloud to the rest of our co-workers and we had a good hearty laugh, the kind that makes your face turn red and your upper lip sweat.

I really regret not making a copy of that manuscript.

P.S. I know it doesnt need to be said, but Robert Downey Jr. was really hot in that movie. I also kind of had a thing for James Spader. But not now, because he's kinda fat.
(Who am I kidding? I would still hit that.)

P.P.S. You know what, Im not really sure I even read this book, or if I just think I did. Memory is deceiving.

Dicen por ahí que la novela es muy de los años 80 y que ha envejecido mal, que ese rollo Bukowski pijo está muy pasado y que incluso lo que en aquellos momentos fue tildado de sensacionalista ahora es casi un juego de niños. No estoy de acuerdo. Simplemente es una novela que retrata una época, un ambiente y un grupo de gente muy determinado, alejado de lo que somos la mayoría, pero reflejando aquellos oscuros lugares a los que todos podríamos llegar bajo ciertas circunstancias, las que rodean a Clay, el protagonista de esta historia.

Clay y sus amigos son hijos adolescentes de famosos magnates de la industria del cine o grandes promotores inmobiliarios; no es extraño que sepan de sus padres, y de con quién andan, a través de las revistas; manejan mucho dinero, conducen coches caros, nada les importa, nada les conmueve, todos tienen su camello particular y todos los días parecen celebrarse fiestas en las que, siempre con exceso, se fuma, se bebe, se consumen drogas y se folla, todos con todos, parece que la bisexualidad es la norma. Cualquier cosa con tal de conseguir sentir algo, lo que sea, algo que les saque de la NADA en la que se han instalado, la NADA que los tiene atrapados.

n  —Quiero volver.
—¿Adonde?
—No lo sé. Simplemente volver. n

En esta fauna hay de todo, desde el integrado sin problemas (“¿Y qué está bien? Si uno quiere algo, tiene derecho a cogerlo. Si quieres hacer algo, tienes derecho a hacerlo.”), el que simplemente se deja ir (“—¿Adónde vamos? —No lo sé. Simplemente damos una vuelta en coche. —Pero esta carretera no lleva a ninguna parte —No importa. —¿Y qué es lo que importa? —Solo que estamos en ella, tío”), el que aún le remueve algo por dentro (“No quiero que me importe nada. Si me importan las cosas es peor”) y más de un juguete roto que acaba en la cuneta sin que parezca importarle a nadie.

La novela consigue su propósito, mostrar esa NADA, aunque la forma en la que lo hace pueda resultar incómoda, pues la propia forma es otra gran NADA: hasta llegar a las 30 o 40 páginas finales (realmente siniestras) , el relato es un continuo de diálogos triviales en los que se comenta una y otra vez el aspecto tan fabuloso que tienen todos, en los que se pregunta incansablemente por cómo y dónde está cada uno, qué ha estado haciendo y qué van a hacer a continuación (bien, por ahí, nada y lo que sea, menos quedarnos aquí), entre párrafos de este estilo:

n   “Kim se pierde y ha olvidado la dirección, así que vamos al Barney's Beanery y nos sentamos allí en silencio y Kim habla de su fiesta y yo juego al billar y cuando Blair pide una copa, la camarera le pide un documento de identidad y Blair saca uno falso y la camarera trae la copa y Blair se la pasa a Kim, que la bebe muy deprisa y dice a Blair que le pida otra. Y las dos hablan de lo mal que ha salido Lene en MV3.” n

Si todo esto les parece muy lejano y quieren algo más de andar por casa, pueden leer «Historias del Kronen», muy muy similar en su planteamiento, aunque la clase social no sea tan exclusiva y el final no sea ni mucho menos tan truculento como en este caso.

One question before we start, "Anthracite?"

Less than Zero is a meditation on the soul-less, physically obsessed world that was born in the 1980s. Yes, perhaps the pedulum has swung to and fro since the publication, but I find the relevance striking to today's pop-culture aesthetic. If Easton Ellis was writing this story today, which his website says he is working on a sequel!?! TECHNOLOGY would or will seperate the characters even more. The Internet is the most convenient place at this time to "Disappear here." One could deconstruct the novel in how we look at Web 2.0; people afraid to merge, full of amoral pornography, hollow identities easily maintained. Look at any comment list on mySpace.com, it would read exactly like any conversation in Less than Zero! Even the title comes from an Elvis Costello lyric where he also sings, "Let's talk about the future, now we've put the past away."

Like Sarah mentioned at the book club, Easton Ellis doesn't blatantly show Clay making the last step into (I guess) "empathetic-human-mode." But somehow I would like to think that Clay has moved on, after he left. So matter-of-factly, he didn't disappear.

I absolutely adored this book because it made me think, and that is possibly the best reason to like a book. It made me explore new avenues, and it made me realize that I also need to stop and smell the flowers once in a while.

Ein wahnsinnig verstörendes, nihilistisches und gewalttätiges Buch, das mich aber, vielleicht auch gerade deswegen sehr fesseln konnte.
Der Schreibstil ist sehr kalt und emotionslos, was ich noch nie so vorher in einem Roman hatte, aber in der Story macht es auch Sinn, wie das Buch geschrieben ist und deswegen passt es so gut.
Definitiv aber kein Buch für Zartbeseitete.

The debut novel from Bret Easton Ellis follows a group of wealthy, mostly interchangeable teenagers as they slide laconically between parties and bars and shopping sprees and bedrooms. It’s a raw version of the voice and themes crystallised in The Rules of Attraction and American Psycho. A series of passages in italics, scattered throughout the book, contain 18-year-old narrator Clay’s reflections on the previous summer; these are particularly amateurish, though there’s something charming in both the unpolished prose and the flashes of surprising vulnerability. If nothing else, Less Than Zero is an interesting cultural artefact, an embodiment of a particular zeitgeist. But it also struck me how much the overall effect reminded me, more than anything, of a bunch of online short stories I’ve read by various Gen Z writers – funny how styles come back around, or maybe the bored detachment of nihilistic teens just always stays the same.

TinyLetter | Linktree

The defense I see most often of Ellis is: "You just don't get the joke." And could there be a more annoying defense? How can you even respond to that? It's meaningless.

And it's not a joke. It's satire; that's totally different.

I spent tonight arguing about Ellis with some very smart contrarians, and here's what they said: Ellis has captured the soulless Me First Generation, and their failure to connect with life, in a really effective way. He refuses his rival David Foster Wallace's edict that literature has to solve something; he insists, with merciless implacability, on simply showing it to you. No solutions, no conclusions.

They're right, and that's not valueless. Ellis has achieved something. I actually know these people - not Ellis' caricatures of them, but the real people - and I see what he's describing.

The only problem is here's the first sentence of this book: "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." This is a metaphor, I happen to know because I was an English major, and it's fucking stupid. And it's his big theme! This! People are afraid to merge! Like he's discovered some grand truth! He'll return to it like fifty times! Ellis isn't our generation's Henry Miller - he's EM Forster.

So. It's not a useless book. It's a decent satire of shallow pop culture sociopathy. Like Wallace, Ellis is concerned with connection: he wants us to engage with life. (To "merge," even!) Unlike Wallace, he refuses to make helpful suggestions; if you're irritated by Wallace's desperately wide-eyed sincerity, Ellis might speak to you.

But for fuck's sake, it is all awfully tedious.

n  Disappear here...n

In modern times, it’s hard to imagine a better published first novel than Bret Easton Ellis’ Less Than Zero, published in 1985, when the writer was just 21. The tender age didn’t seem to bother Ellis as he effortlessly deconstructs the youth of his generation in Los Angeles. It’s cold, nihilistic, raw and driven by emotionless desires. It’s this detachedness that gives power to Bret Easton Ellis’ minimalist prose.

Tightly controlled, the novel follows the narrator, Clay, an eighteen year old returning to L.A. for Christmas and his drug-fuelled lifestyle and boring existence. But is the novel boring? Far from it. Less Than Zero depicts a young generation that is as true today as it was when released in the eighties. These young adults are morally empty, reckless, uncaring, devoid of emotion and bored by the constraints of societal ethics. Its realism is prevalent in the narrator’s detachment from the world, a detachment we all recognise, understand and relate to, but never on a conscious level; and in novel after novel Ellis paints this bleakly truthful picture of society addicted to blandness and materialism, hopelessly detached from the beautiful world around them.* We see these people all around us, and Bret Easton Ellis is simply showing the reader.

A lonely, oppressive and disturbing atmosphere of truthfulness dominates the novel, even in the simplest scenes, and simply doesn’t let go until the last page. Less Than Zero is a beautifully controlled and impressive first novel from a brilliant observer and satirist of the Western world.


* — Cognitive dissonance perhaps?