Plot does not make the novel. People within it do. Just because you can remember the names of some characters in a book, doesn’t mean they are fleshed out. But knowing them still, says something.
Bret Easton Ellis wrote this book when he was 19 and it was published when he was 21. There are many imperfections in this book, and runny sentences. But the dialogue, characters, and conflicts are solid. I felt the horrible human nature of Los Angeles, along with it’s insufficient excessiveness.
The story follows Clay returning from New Hampshire for Christmas in LA, and there is a lot of snow in California if ya know what I mean. Also, that euphemism found in second independent clause from the previous sentence would be nowhere to be found in the short novel. The main inferiority of the novel is just that Bret Easton Ellis was too young when he wrote it. Although it gives him an advantage that there is something impressive about his writing, he lacks the sculpting of a story that comes with experience and age.
Aside from trying to be too dark and edgy, the world could always use a book by a 19 year old about a 19 year old, and how fucked the world seems all about us at that age. It really takes itself seriously, which what any young writer deserves to think about their work. It is written in the present perfect. “I sit in the sun and light a cigarette and try to calm down.” This pushes the novel forward and allows for you to be immersed and feel like you are at the party.
You read on. I wasn’t compelled or moved, but I read it and I liked it. It read like a movie. It actually does what Hemingway was trying to do. I can’t picture everything, but I am there. Every sentence hurts. That doesn’t mean they are all meaningful, but they feel important.
Ben Bonkoske 