Tuesday, October 11, 2005
On the eve that John Banville was awarded the Booker Prize, I and hundreds of others went for a talk by Bret Easton Ellis at the Royal Festival Hall. Not that I missed the vital news; the minute the winner was announced, Easton Ellis' British Random House representative (or whatever) sprang up and announced her glee. But I am jumping ahead of myself.
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
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