Bibliomania, Jacques Bonnet, and Norwegian Wood

Recently I was gifted a wonderful little book for my birthday, Jacques Bonnet's Phantoms On The Bookshelves.  A diaphanous read, it's packed with anecdotes and factoids on the irrepressible subject of bibliomania. As any reader of this space knows, I am a great lover of books. I love the way they feel in my hands, I love the way they smell, I love flipping through their pages, underlining my favourite lines and writing little notes in the margins.  But after reading Bonnet's treatise on the subject, I am convinced and must somewhat ashamedly admit that bibliomaniac I am not.

Don't let me disabuse, I can be quite manic about books. My most prized literary possession is the massive Yale Shakespeare which not only features every single work ever attributed to the Bard, but is also typeset based on the authoritative First Folio and features modernized spelling.  I am proud of my book collection.  I call it a collection rather than a library because according to Bonnet, a private library must consist of 20,000 volumes, at a minimum. Yes, 20,000.  I cannot in good conscience refer to myself as a bibliomaniac.  Contrastingly, Bonnet boasts a private library of over 40,000 volumes!

Phantoms On The Bookshelves is peppered with tangents and asides on the peculiarities and necessities of book devotees.  Storage becomes a major issue, not to mention the horror of moving. Bonnet gleefully describes how the walls of his apartment are covered with books from floor to ceiling, including his bathroom.  Of course, it means he has to keep his bathroom window open at all times so as not to ruin books housed there by the steam from his hot showers.  The one place Bonnet eschews storing books is directly above his bed.  You see, there is a legend involving Charles-Valentin Alkan (no relation), a French composer from the 19th century who was called by Hans von Bülow as the "Berlioz of the piano".  The legend goes Mssr. Alkan too was a bibliomaniac who was tragically killed when a bookshelf collapsed on his head whilst, one version has it, he slept.  Another version claims he was reaching for the Talmud. The veracity of this tale is suspect at best but its tenor was enough to spook Bonnet from avoiding a similar fate.

I reveled in reading Phantoms, comparing my idiosyncrasies to others' who share my worship of books (the author and I share a preference for reading lying down).  Bonnet likes to retain the price of the book on the inside cover to always remind him how much he spent.  I too like to retain such tidbits but I also write my name and acquisition date on the inside cover. It's both a mark of ownership and a vain attempt to prevent theft.  The thinking goes that a borrower will be less likely to steal a book if he has to be confronted with the reminder of his crime every time he opens it. Naturally, this method has been resoundingly unsuccessful (Bonnet himself mentions that it's unreasonable to expect the return of loaned book).  

I wish I had been privy to Bonnet's assertion a long time ago because I am one of those who did expect a loaned book to be returned and would find myself quite annoyed when, in my excitement to share a newfound literary gem, I'd strongly encourage my close friends to read it immediately only to never see that edition again. This was the case about six years ago when something extraordinary occurred.  I finally got around to reading Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood and was completely overcome by its haunting brilliance.  Just thinking about the novel even now gives me chills.  Andrew, a close friend of mine whose expansive breadth of literary knowledge is a source of some insecurity for me, paid a visit and insisted that I let him borrow Murakami's masterpiece.  Although hesitant, I relented after repeated assurances that he'd return it to me promptly upon finishing.

I haven't seen it since but I am neither annoyed nor resentful.  Norwegian Wood is a novel of such heart-wrenching beauty and masterful elegance that Andrew's possession of it has in a certain sense further cemented our great friendship.  He loves the novel as I do, a devotion that transcends physical ownership.  Andrew has a twin brother, Scott, who counts Anna Karenina as his favourite novel.  He too noticed Norwegian Wood on Andrew's bookshelf and borrowed it.  Andrew hasn't seen it since.  A novel such as this almost demands to be passed from one reader to another, and its journey from Baltimore, MD to Columbus, MS is one that I'm convinced Murakami would be touched by, and that Bonnet would surely approve. 

Recently Andrew came to visit again and noticed a Richard Yates novel, Young Hearts Crying, that he wanted to borrow.  I agreed, but with a catch.  Andrew left his edition of Evelyn Waugh short stories as collateral.  

Imperial Boredom

Before I commence with my review of Bret Easton Ellis' latest novel, Imperial Bedrooms, I want to take a moment to expound on my views on Criticism -- and Critics, in general.  Philosophically, I am against the whole enterprise.  I've never understood the compulsion to write about a work of art that wasn't any good.  I'd much rather write about a work of art that inspired, enlightened, enthralled, or empowered me.  As is true with people, I would rather prefer not to engage with someone or something that does not interest me.  Clearly, my views are my own; they're highly flawed, and my position wide open to numerous attacks.  The real reasoning here is to act as a segue to my review of Imperial Bedrooms.

As a rule, I love Bret Easton Ellis' writing.  At his best, he's the preeminent satiric voice of our generation (being the hyper-materalistic mass communication savvy proud philistinism of the past 30 years).  He is savage, unrelenting, infinitely self-reflexive, and horrifically hilarious.  From my very first reading of American Psycho at the tender age of nineteen, I have been an absolute Easton Ellis devotee.  I instantly devoured (pun intended) every piece of his writing, enthralled by the totality of the literary universe he had created.  Like so many great writers before him (I'm thinking Faulkner), he engendered his own creations into an already familiar world of celebrities, socialites, and the uber-rich.  Collective apathy strikes a central chord.  Confusion is rampant.  Substance exists only as a worthless commodity to be scorned and ridiculed.  As Victor Ward, the male model "protagonist" of Glamorama, dismisses whenever challenged about the minutia of his shallowness: "Spare me."

And then something disheartening happened.  As brilliantly relayed in Lunar Park, Easton Ellis, the man (as opposed to the character), had always been part of the world he so viciously skewered.  Like Fitzgerald before him, his work has so much bite because it's filled with intense self-loathing, a self-loathing borne out of a desperate desire to be accepted and inculcated into a world they both inherently despised, but were nonetheless inescapably addicted to.  What set them apart, however, was that they remained ever the hawkish observers, and consummate craftsmen.  In Fitzgerald's case, if his work suffered, it wasn't out of laziness or complacency, but deepening depression and almost unthinkable alcohol abuse.  With Easton Ellis, it seems he's finally caved into the world he'd battled against since his shockingly precocious first novel, Less Than Zero, and peaked out with American Psycho. 

Imperial Bedrooms, meant as a sequel to Zero, feels like half an effort, a middling cash-out, like a final semester paper that was begun the night before and completed just before dawn, barely reaching the exact minimum required word count.  Gone is the forceful condemning satire, the insanely labyrinthian self-reflexivity, the endless burrowing into the nothingness that is possible in our postmodern American souls.  Instead, we get a rehashing of the same themes:  paranoia, drugs, voyeurism, sexual manipulation, and perfect looking chicks.

At a mere 164 pages, it flies by so fast you forgot you were reading anything cohesive at all, just some stupid vignettes about even stupider amoral people.  Not only did I not care about the characters, I didn't even care about not caring about them. 

As I mentioned before, I loathe to write about something I dislike.  And truth be told, Bedrooms does contain a few redeeming qualities.  The ever-present sharp wit is still there, and no one can roast the inherent absurdism of a current fad like Easton Ellis.  But from an author whom I love, whom I've personally witnessed achieve momentously transcending literary greatness, to just fade away the way he has is saddening.  Like a star quarterback who keeps on coming back even though the only play he really has mastery over is the screen pass.  Does he really need the money?  Hasn't his ego been thoroughly stroked with the meteoric success he achieved over twenty-five years ago? 

Easton Ellis likes to epigram his books with song lyrics, often adopting David Byrne's Talking Heads' repetoire...so allow me to follow in suit, from 'Psycho Killer'  (apt choice I'd say!) although instead as an epitaph to his writing career:

"When I have nothing to say
my lips are sealed
Say something once
Why say it again?"