After a few days too many, due to a nostalgic need to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I finished Jay McInerney's 'Bright Lights, Big City'. I was all set to hate it, i can't quite figure out why but there seems to have been some underlying bad feeling towards the novel. Who knows. I liked it though. A little vapid, a little Holden Caulfield - which to be fair is hard to avoid when writing about disaffected youths - but all in all a pretty good read about the drugged up 'elite' with deep-seated issues.
But i'd rather read Nick McDonell's 'Twelve'.
As per usual, i was on the lookout for good quotes within the book and scored two:
'The sound of the tumblers in the locks of your apartment door puts you in mind of dungeons. The place is haunted. Just this morning you found a makeup brush beside the toilet. Memories lurk like dustballs at the back of drawers. The stereo is a special model that plays only music fraught with poignant associations.'
'He picks up a bag of hard rolls and throws it at your feet.
You get down on your knees and tear open the bag. The smell of warm dough envelops you. The first bite sticks in your throat and you almost gag. You will have to go slowly. You will have to learn everything all over again.'
My throat feels like sandpaper. Bleurgh. I'm going to get so sick of drinking tea.
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