More than Perfect

Last blog I spoke briefly about Less than Zero. Writing about it made me realize how much I love the novel, and how, after reading it six or seven times in three years, more than two years have passed since my last read. That’s mostly due to my friend borrowing my mangled copy filled with my own highlights and notes. So today, for a few reasons—stop worrying!—I went out to purchase Less than Zero.

At risk of sounding melodramatic, touching the book gave me chills. It was like finding your soulmate—something I very much believe in—being separated from her for too long, and then finally reunited in a blissful moment of ecstasy that you only hope can last forever. Okay, so maybe the moment was not that awesome, but it was nevertheless great.

 I first read Less than Zero during freshman year of college, what seems like too long ago. At that point I was undeclared, confused and scared, and had little idea what the fuck I was doing with my life—now I at least know what I’m doing even if I’m failing. So I read the novel for a class, and gods, it hit me so hard. Profoundly. A fist to the face. It left me dumbfounded, depressed, disturbed, amazed, haunted, and more adjectives I rather not list. Finishing Less than Zero, I decided then that I needed to be an author. Something snapped, or clicked, inside me, and later that winter I began serious writing. I found something so impactful that I could not stop thinking about it. The novel gripped me so much that I immediately began reading it again, and then two weeks later, again.

Later than month I read all of Ellis’s novels; I read a ton that month. While all are great, Less than Zero is so much more to me. Sort of recently Ellis published a new book…sort of a sequel to Less than Zero, which was his first novel, written when he was 21, in 1985, I think. I have not yet read his new novel. I don’t even know the title. I’m afraid, horribly afraid, that it will be awful. I don’t want to revisit that world in a different light, a different time, written by a much older man, with characters who are much older. The thought frightens me so much that I have not read my favorite author’s newest novel. I know, strange. Part of me thinks I will never read it.

I’m not here to summarize or ruin Less than Zero for anyone, and while I tell my friends to read it, I always warn them first. Ellis’s novels, especially Less than Zero and a few others, are far from entirely pleasant reads. You will be disgusted and horrified; some will be horribly offended. Really. No joke. I’ve had people scoff at me for telling them that Bret Easton Ellis is my favorite author. People laughed at me at a literary convention.

Some critics claim that Ellis depicts humankind’s flaws, cruelty, and depravity to shock his readers. I tend to believe his writing contains a much deeper, more profound message—that we, as people, are all tragically and horribly flawed, and we are all looking for our place in the world and someone to share it with. Ellis’s characters—at least the protagonists, if you can use that word loosely—always seem to be searching for someone and something: an anchor, a muse, an escape, someone who understands them as much as they understand themselves. Someone who cares, who loves.

Arriving home tonight, I read all 210 pages of Less than Zero, stopping only for dinner and the occasional text. Part of me worried that I would not appreciate it as much after the long absence, but the novel thankfully proved me wrong. If anything, after what I’ve experienced and learned these past few years, the people I have met and stories I’ve heard and lived, the things I’ve written and read, if anything I appreciate Less than Zero more than ever.

It also disturbed me far more than ever; I’m more mature now, despite how immature I often act. That’s what she said. What was once absurd and almost laughable is now chilling, eye-opening, sickening. I discovered trends I had somehow missed during all my previous readings, and I rediscovered the same ideas and characters and corruption, the same damaged lives and broken souls that opened my eyes to writing and the world in general. I again saw the world through Clay’s eyes, and although we’re much different people—he, of course, isn’t real—I found it far too easy to relate to the bareness and indifference consuming him. Quite honestly, I don’t enjoy this world. I’m cynical, and life, for the most part, sucks. Not that I’ve experienced many extremely fucked up things, but anywhere you look, life is too often void…of life. It really is easy to just disappear, vanish, and not care if you rather not care. It’s too easy to fall into your own status-quo, to accept mediocrity and even contentment, to just survive the rhythms of life and hope for something better and greater. It’s too hard to merge into traffic and make yourself change, force yourself to truly live and enjoy every moment.

Writing this, and reading Less than Zero yet again, I’m beginning to see that it’s affected me and my way of thought far more than I ever realized. I don’t know where I would be right now if I never read it, if I never saw how quickly, and gradually, life can consume you, when it truly isn’t life at all.