I didn’t care as much as I wanted to. Read this book if you’re looking for a one-night thing, a quickie reading that’s mainly for pleasure and the heck of it. If you’re looking for something serious, move on or read the part of this review under Sensuality vs Intellectualism. This novel offers some sort of limelight in the city of New York back in the ‘80s. The joy ride is personified by a man rapidly losing hold of his life. If you’re into that whole drug, party, booze getup then hooray for you. On the other hand, if you’re a pretty low-key dude like me then it’s a meh. Still, the guy is an aspiring writer stuck in a desk job, so I can empathize to a degree. Overall there are some solid parts, this one particularly:“But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name.”But then there are some lackluster scenes when it tried to be emotional but didn’t do enough, also the second-person point of view became a little disconcerting after some time. Still, it was quite fun. The book is at its best when it’s about the bright lights, enjoyment, and the city of New York. The ending left a little to be desired but it wasn’t too bad either. Let me then dwell on the predominant issue that this book injected into my thoughts.Sensuality vs. Intellectualism. There are few things in this world that truly interest people. Mainly, they have to do with the senses. Rarely are people excited by the prospect of philosophy or intellectual stimulation. They associate more with the aesthetic; hence art is never devoid of its audience. People are sexual, gluttonous, musical, even fragrance is highly sought after. These qualities define people; it gives them their fleeting share of happiness. It gives them pleasure. But pleasure is subjective to what pleases one, and pleasure in the humanistic sense is delved in the stimulation of the senses. It leads one to question humanity’s major adjective, intellectual or sensual? Based on the aforementioned, I would conclude the latter. For what is the purpose of intellectual endeavors? An education is but the prerequisite for work. Nobody goes to the university to pursue knowledge, people pursue degrees. Their goal is to pass their requirements and find decent work. And in work, people think, exercise their minds in order to receive monetary compensation. Compensation which will be used for food, shelter, clothing, electricity, travel. One can argue that these are necessary for one’s survival, that one uses the intellect to survive. But things that we say sustain one’s survival are delved into the senses more than is necessary. So then, is intellect nothing but a means to an end? If the purpose of intellect is to lead us to a pleasurable sensual life, then should intellectual growth be pursued? Do we need to enhance the means? Wouldn’t a direct pursuit of the end be more efficient? If one follows this line of thinking, then seeking a life of sensual pleasure is the obvious choice to follow. One does not need an education to do that. But then we tackle humanity’s great flaw: greed. If intellect is the means to the sensual, then the greater the intellect the greater the sensual pleasure accessible. People want greater pleasure, they strive for intellect growth. Alas, there’s a catch. There’s a ledge at the end, a deep cliff of no return where a dark chasm awaits. When one proceeds past a certain point in the intellectual sphere, one becomes aware of the said circumstances. With awareness comes the numbing of the senses, the sensual. A mist engulfing one and suppressing feeling appears. Suddenly, the sensual is nothing but a distraction. A fascination of all things metaphysical gives reality the quality of a dream. One starts asking questions, and with questions come, not answers, but more questions. An awakening to why, what, who, where and for that, the sensual has no answer. But the intellect tells one that it is futile, that the answer doesn’t matter. It’s asking the question that tells you you’re awake, that the sensual is but a dream of those asleep. If there is something that can tip the scales, that can show that humanity is more intellectual than sensual, it’s one thing. Curiosity. The need to know. Why?
If Jay McInerney and Brett Easton Ellis are brothers in prose, then McInerney is definitely the quieter one, less interested in chainsawing you to pieces, and more interested in just being your friend. "You" being the key word here, as McInerney's debut novel is told exclusively in the second person point of view (You do this. You do that. You find yourself in a bathroom stall, snorting Bolivian marching powder with a green-haired punk/model, etc, etc). But the POV never gets old, or comes off gimmicky because, lucky for the reader, McInerney becomes more and more comfortable with his voice, his talents, and the greater story at hand as it marches forward. Typical, I think, for debut novels, and this one shines.Unlike Ellis--and perhaps McInerney's later work--the prose here is tight, the sentences clipped and damn near minimal (which might explain why Senor Carver himself, Grandmaster Overlord of All Things Minimal, gives a blurb on the front cover of this edition), and while the dialogue/interactions between characters can't decide whether it wants to be completely vapid or profoundly subtle, it's interesting to see a writer becoming comfortable in his own skin as you turn each page. Though the last three chapters throw a bit of a curveball the reader's way (nothing like the ol' 'C' word to shed light on everything, break those psychological dams and wrap it all up), it's the day-to-day life of our aspiring/failed writer getting fired, getting wasted, getting chased, getting high against New York City's club-thumping backdrop that make this novel worthwhile. It's an oddly sweet story with a sweet, ne'er do well main character who does want to make good with his life and relationships. So remember: McInerney doesn't want to hurt you. He wants to love you. And then do a shit ton of coke with you. And then live happily ever after.
What do You think about Bright Lights, Big City (1984)?
You get used to reading a novel in second person pretty quickly, so it's not really that annoying. You enjoy how quickly the pages turn, how quickly the plot flows. It's a fun read, if not a deep one. You recognize the parallels with your own life, but don't feel the need to dwell on this. You end up liking the main character, even though you know he's an asshole. You're a bit resistant to some implied moralizing at the end, but you let it go. And you will make use of the metaphor of cocaine use as Bolivian Marching Powder in future conversations. That's about it. Forgettable, but worth your time.
—Shepherd
Not sure what to think of this one. On the one hand, it's got a lot of very good prose (and funny, too, e.g. "You are a republic of voices tonight. Unfortunately, that republic is Italy."), and you pretty much have to identify with the main character...he is you, after all.* On the other hand, and maybe this is symptomatic of first novels, but McInerney seems to feel the need to heap on some unnecessary dramatic events either in a quest for Total Sympathy or as a justification for the protagonist's ennui. To which I say, does anyone need a justification for ennui? Plus, he crucially drops the ball on a couple of scenes near the end. More specifically, all the important scenes toward the end are very much hit or miss. His failed hookup with the angelic but still believable Megan was great, as was the scene at the very end with the bread. But the scene where he runs into the wife who abandoned him? Suddenly we have lines like "'How's it going?' You start to laugh. She laughs too. You slap your thigh. She wants to know how it's going. A very funny question. Hilarious. Amanda is a riot. You are laughing so hard that you choke . . . You are laughing. People are pounding your back. It's funny. People are funny. Everything's so funny you could die laughing." Is it a commentary on the insipidness of unrequited obsession? Maybe, but that doesn't make me like it. Despite all that, though, it's a fundamentally good book, or so I think. Everything from the first two thirds, plus a few strangely touching scenes near the end, makes it worth it.*Which seems like it should be just a cheap trick, but McInerney makes it seem like the only way the book could have been written.
—Drew
Probably one of the most brilliant books I've ever read. I absolutely adored it. Of course, this might partially be due to the second-person point of view. You don't see that often, especially in a full length novel, but McInerney made it seem effortless. He did an incredible job with it. Sure, I'm disappointed that we'll never know the narrator's name - it'll make describing this book to others very difficult. But at the same time, this makes the novel more real. The narrator himself is great. His obsession with the "Coma Baby," fondness for Bolivian marching powder, and other interests all make him incredibley human. Not to mention he's also hilarious. I found myself laughing constantly while reading this book. His sense of humor was so entertaining.There's not much of a plot to this novel, but I don't think that's really a bad thing. This is a book about life, after all, and there's no real plot in life. There's just people dealing with other people and problems and love and laughter. You face conflicts and you have to overcome them. You have to make the most of situations. That's how it is in the real world, and that's how it is in Bright Lights, Big City. Beautiful, incredible, powerful book. I look forward to reading more novels by Jay McInerney.
—Abby
