You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
icemagrin 's review for:
The Rules of Attraction
by Bret Easton Ellis
Pure nihilism in the form of middle-class youths taking hedonism to its limits, in drug-fueled, sex-fueled college experiences. The best way I can describe it would be if Holden Caulfield, of Catcher in the Rye, discovered: tits, dick and coke.
One thing that struck me is that, unlike some books where the point is crystal clear, The Rules of Attraction feels like a story without a point—and in many ways, I think that’s the point. At its heart, it’s an incredibly cynical, disaffected, nihilistic piece of literature. The characters are vapid college students whose existence revolves primarily around sex, drugs, more sex, more drugs—like goldfish driven by some primordial impulse. These thoughts are almost constantly on loop—broken only by their disdain for ‘townies’ and their parents—every 5 seconds, en masse. Yet there is something revolutionary about the book—the very fact that these youthful, arguably superficial, preoccupations were allowed to be all-encompassing, indulged, and allowed to matter.
It’s one of those books where a lot happens, and yet nothing really happens. There are numerous moments where I just couldn’t put it down. Whether it was reading something shocking (and usually hilarious), or getting wrapped up in the romantic entanglements of the characters. Yet by the end, despite all the mini roller coasters—make-ups, break-ups, abortions, deaths—it felt like nothing had changed. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the ride—loved it even. And while it was less satisfying in some ways than other books that end with a bow of meaning tied on top, I recognise and appreciate that this novel wasn’t trying to do that—that its nihilism and cynicism were its very essence.
I also need to make a whole point about humour. This book is FUNNY—like cackling on the tube funny, having people look at you in public kind of funny. The humour veers between shock factor and cruelty, both of which feel deeply authentic to not only the characters but the environment and the time in which it was written. Plus, let's be real, listening to a bunch of 20-year-olds talk about girls with their best friends, or vice versa, is not exactly a lesson in empathy. The kind of jokes you can’t help but laugh at, then step back and wonder whether you’re awful for finding them funny—only to laugh again on the next page. I literally scribbled in the margins of one particularly raunchy joke: Bret, you naughty naughty boy—you’re so wrong for this—thank you (because clearly, I enter a parasocial relationship with the authors I enjoy).
Something, and don’t ask me what, feels very Shakespearean about this story—dare I say A Midsummer Night's Dream-esque. The way everyone becomes infatuated or falls in love with people they shouldn’t, the calamity of desire and unrequited love—all of it felt almost mystical, yet deeply ironic. Mix some of that with Catcher in the Rye, then add a lot of drugs, a lot of sex, and voila.
One thing that struck me is that, unlike some books where the point is crystal clear, The Rules of Attraction feels like a story without a point—and in many ways, I think that’s the point. At its heart, it’s an incredibly cynical, disaffected, nihilistic piece of literature. The characters are vapid college students whose existence revolves primarily around sex, drugs, more sex, more drugs—like goldfish driven by some primordial impulse. These thoughts are almost constantly on loop—broken only by their disdain for ‘townies’ and their parents—every 5 seconds, en masse. Yet there is something revolutionary about the book—the very fact that these youthful, arguably superficial, preoccupations were allowed to be all-encompassing, indulged, and allowed to matter.
It’s one of those books where a lot happens, and yet nothing really happens. There are numerous moments where I just couldn’t put it down. Whether it was reading something shocking (and usually hilarious), or getting wrapped up in the romantic entanglements of the characters. Yet by the end, despite all the mini roller coasters—make-ups, break-ups, abortions, deaths—it felt like nothing had changed. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the ride—loved it even. And while it was less satisfying in some ways than other books that end with a bow of meaning tied on top, I recognise and appreciate that this novel wasn’t trying to do that—that its nihilism and cynicism were its very essence.
I also need to make a whole point about humour. This book is FUNNY—like cackling on the tube funny, having people look at you in public kind of funny. The humour veers between shock factor and cruelty, both of which feel deeply authentic to not only the characters but the environment and the time in which it was written. Plus, let's be real, listening to a bunch of 20-year-olds talk about girls with their best friends, or vice versa, is not exactly a lesson in empathy. The kind of jokes you can’t help but laugh at, then step back and wonder whether you’re awful for finding them funny—only to laugh again on the next page. I literally scribbled in the margins of one particularly raunchy joke: Bret, you naughty naughty boy—you’re so wrong for this—thank you (because clearly, I enter a parasocial relationship with the authors I enjoy).
Something, and don’t ask me what, feels very Shakespearean about this story—dare I say A Midsummer Night's Dream-esque. The way everyone becomes infatuated or falls in love with people they shouldn’t, the calamity of desire and unrequited love—all of it felt almost mystical, yet deeply ironic. Mix some of that with Catcher in the Rye, then add a lot of drugs, a lot of sex, and voila.