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Zusammenfassung
Zusammenfassung
With the publication of Bright Lights, Big City in 1984, Jay McInerney became a literary sensation, heralded as the voice of a generation. The novel follows a young man, living in Manhattan as if he owned it, through nightclubs, fashion shows, editorial offices, and loft parties as he attempts to outstrip mortality and the recurring approach of dawn. With nothing but goodwill, controlled substances, and wit to sustain him in this anti-quest, he runs until he reaches his reckoning point, where he is forced to acknowledge loss and, possibly, to rediscover his better instincts. This remarkable novel of youth and New York remains one of the most beloved, imitated, and iconic novels in America.
Rezensionen (2)
Guardian Review
You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. How did you get here? It was your friend Tad Allagash. Your brain is rushing with Brazilian marching powder. You are talking to a girl with a shaved head. You want to meet the kind of girl who isn't going to be here. You want to read the kind of fiction this isn't. You give the girl some powder. She still doesn't want you. Things were fine once. Then you got married. Monday arrives on schedule. You are late for work. You buy the Post and read the Coma Baby story. Are you the Coma Baby? Of course you are. It's just a fucking metaphor. You reach the lobby of the famous New York magazine for which you work, take the elevator to the Department of Factual Verification and say hi to Megan. You hope your boss Ms Clara Tillinghast aka the Clinger doesn't want the French piece as they'll find out you lied about your fluency in your resume. You want to be a writer, not a fact-checker. "We want the French piece today," says the Clinger with awesome inevitability. Your sinuses are hurting. You go for a walk and buy a fake Cartier. It falls apart. Even you can't escape the symbolism. You forget to buy Megan her Tab. Likewise. Your career is going nowhere. Pretty much like this book. You get home to your apartment on West 12th Street. It's a wreck. Like you. No kidding. You wonder if Amanda will ever explain her desertion. She was a model and she thought you were rich. You never spotted she was an airhead. So what does that make you? Tad turns up, looking ridiculous in a pair of red Brooks Brothers trousers. "Got any drugs, had any sympathy fucks?" he asks. You notice you've written Dead Amanda instead of Dear Amanda on a letter. Deep. You go to Odeon with Tad and meet Elaine from Amanda's agency. You get some toot and lie about your importance. Everyone ignores you. Are you surprised? You read in the paper that Amanda is in town. You look at some mannequins she modelled. They have more personality than both of you combined. You're in luck. The Clinger has called in sick. You could do some more work on the French piece and save your ass. But you can't really be bothered. You'd rather forget to buy Megan a bagel and nearly buy a ferret. You think of Coma Baby. You think of Amanda. You met her when you were a reporter in Kansas City. She liked your Ivy League preppiness. You liked it that she never thought she was beautiful. You told her she could become a model. You hoped she could be cool and ironic. She couldn't. Then neither could you. She called you from Paris, said she was leaving you, had found another man, a photographer. You thought all photographers were fags. You haven't told your family or anyone at work she's left you. You get back to the office. The proofs have gone. They're being too nice to you in the office. You're screwed. You buy some cocaine and get ripped off. You take the bus home. You've forgotten your keys but get in anyway. Tad gives you some flake and asks you to meet his cousin Vicky. You don't want to, but you do. She's reading Spinoza. That makes her interesting. Apparently. "Tad's an ass," she says. You agree. You kiss goodnight. Could this be intimacy? Duh. The Clinger calls you in. "I guess I'm fired," you say. She doesn't reply that for once you've got something right. That might have been almost funny. You leave the office. You see your brother Michael and run away. You do some drugs. Yawn. You meet up with Tad. Yawn. You go back to the magazine at night, let loose a ferret and stumble around the office drunk. You are the American Dream. Hysterical. You gatecrash Amanda's fashion show. You get drunk. Yawn. You steal a briefcase and pretend to have a bomb. You stand up and ask Amanda why she left you. No one gives a rat's ass. Security escort you out. You go back to the magazine and forget to take Megan out to lunch. You give her some powder. You're all heart. She invites you to dinner. She tells you about her son. She asks about Amanda. You tell her she's a fictional character. "How achingly hip," she laughs. You steal some valium, you make a pass, you pass out. Coma Baby lives. Is this a sign? Yes. You see your brother Michael again. This time you tell him how you've been struggling since Mom died and that Amanda has left. He looks at you. "You're not planning to undermine what little satire there was with a schmaltzy ending?" he asks. It looks that way. You think some more about your Mom. You take some lines. They don't work. You go to Odeon with Tad. Amanda is there. She says: "How's it going?" You walk out. You need cash. The dispenser isn't working. You phone Vicky. "I think my Mom's a missing person," you tell her. She sounds interested. She shouldn't be. Your nose starts bleeding. You pass a bakery, smell Mom's home-made apple-pie, smell redemption. You'll have to start again. Thank fuck we won't. John Crace's Digested Reads appear in G2 on Tuesdays. Caption: article-DigClass27.1 They're being too nice to you in the office. You're screwed. You buy some cocaine and get ripped off. You take the bus home. You've forgotten your keys but get in anyway. [Tad] gives you some flake and asks you to meet his cousin Vicky. You don't want to, but you do. She's reading Spinoza. That makes her interesting. Apparently. "Tad's an ass," she says. You agree. You kiss goodnight. Could this be intimacy? Duh. You gatecrash [Amanda]'s fashion show. You get drunk. Yawn. You steal a briefcase and pretend to have a bomb. You stand up and ask Amanda why she left you. No one gives a rat's ass. Security escort you out. You go back to the magazine and forget to take [Megan] out to lunch. You give her some powder. You're all heart. She invites you to dinner. She tells you about her son. She asks about Amanda. You tell her she's a fictional character. "How achingly hip," she laughs. You steal some valium, you make a pass, you pass out. You think some more about your Mom. You take some lines. They don't work. You go to Odeon with Tad. Amanda is there. She says: "How's it going?" You walk out. You need cash. The dispenser isn't working. You phone Vicky. "I think my Mom's a missing person," you tell her. She sounds interested. She shouldn't be. Your nose starts bleeding. You pass a bakery, smell Mom's home-made apple-pie, smell redemption. You'll have to start again. Thank fuck we won't. - John Crace.
Kirkus-Rezension
You apologize. You beg her pardon. You tell her there are so many damn things on your mind. You have a bad memory for details."" No, this isn't a self-help relationship manual: the narrator of McInerney's slight, strained first novel refers to himself throughout as ""you"" rather than ""I""--a mannerism which becomes increasingly irritating. ""You"" is 24, a would-be writer in Manhattan, working as a beleaguered fact-checker at ""the magazine"" (read The New Yorker)--but spending most nights snorting cocaine on the ""club"" circuit, passively following his decadent pal Tad around. Why is ""you"" so listless, so intent on oblivion? Well, at first it seems as if he's primarily grieving over the breakup of his brief marriage to fashion-model Amanda--who has left him for a male model. But, in the novel's final pages, it's revealed that he is actually grieving over the cancer-death of his mother a year ago; and there's a brief, striking flashback/scene from that deathbed ordeal--with the dying mother suddenly free of lifelong inhibitions, eagerly asking for details about her son's sex life. Through this sequence, and in other spots, McInerney demonstrates a promising tragicomic talent; occasionally there's a very funny line. And one or two strong short stories could probably have been shaped from the material here. As it is, however, this short novel is painfully thin and unshapely: the mother's death, saved for the end as a cheap surprise gimmick, comes too late to humanize the smirky/self-pitying narrator; a rebirth fadeout--symbolized by the eating of warm bread--reads like an unintentional parody of Raymond Carver. And there's blatant padding throughout--tidbits of N.Y.C. observation, running gags lifted from Woody Allen, cutesy references to TV commercials. In sum, then: a spotty, perhaps-premature debut, with an unappealing mix of trendy and maudlin--but a few readers will be drawn by the gloss. . . and more than a few will want to sample the nasty, half-funny, roman à clef chapters about life at ""the magazine. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
