Like all rockstars, Bret Easton Ellis takes care of his entrances and exits.
In a show, the most important is the beginning (to create the mood) and the end (to impregnate the memory).
His new novel,
Les Éclats,
fulfills this contract perfectly.
It begins dazzlingly with a romantic reflection on the inspiration of the novel, and ends in sumptuous melancholy.
Between the two, it distills an elegant boredom like a late afternoon by the swimming pool of the Hotel Roosevelt, painted by David Hockney and where I read his book.
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The rumor said of this last novel that it was completely doddering.
It's more complicated than that: since his first book, Ellis drools, of course, about his dissolute youth as a friqueous teenager in Los Angeles in 1981. Such is his universe, the matrix of his style, the source of his little music.
He is not doddering but spoiled, like a child wandering alone in cinemas.
It is not here that we will reproach a novelist for his obsessions...
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