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A review by wrenreader
The Patrick Melrose Novels by Edward St Aubyn
St. Aubyn is a fantastic writer.
Patrick (St. Aubyn's doppelgänger? I admit to frequently pondering which parts were autobiographical and came to the conclusion: much. Yes, yes, one is supposed to pretend writers, especially the great Male writer, make it all up from their maarhvelous imaginations, but I'm calling bollocks on this one--a term I've never actually used before--as I am sick of the idea that autobiographical fiction is somehow less worthy than whatever else it is that other writers supposedly write. The argument is about as pointless as those about adverbs, POV, and the passive vs active voice, as the chosen winner is usually just the style that is in vogue by whatever writer is in vogue at the moment. Phew. Glad we got that settled. Now back to my brief review.) is a sharply detailed character, a quick wit, and a fabulous fuck-up who remains true to his racist, misogynist, fat-phobic, homophobic ways. Yup. He is quite the rat-fink. And yet. You root for him. Sure, his parents help with that sentiment. Patrick was horrifically abused as a child--and, seriously, aristocratic English society has never looked so bad. (Princess Margaret even makes a bovine appearance. One wonders why on earth people get so devoted to the crown. But, alas, they do.) The books on the whole wrestle the idea: are we free to become our own persons, separate from our parents? Or are we doomed to repeat and repeat the endless cycles of pain?
A taste of the St. Aubyn's prose-y goodness from Book 2:
"Patrick stared at the dented hubcap of an old white station wagon. It had seen so much, he reflected, and remembered nothing, like a slick amnesiac reeling in thousands of images and rejecting them instantly, spinning out its empty life under a paler wider sky."
Or this as his drug supplier takes a hit:
"Pierre's pupils dilated for a moment and then contracted again, like the feeding mouth of a sea anemone."
But also the unexpected wisdom:
"Of course it was wrong to want to change people, but what else could you possibly want to do with them?"
Or: "Above all, he wanted to stop being a child without using the cheap disguise of becoming a parent."
And the funny. Well, funny out of context, is not funny, but here's a small sample as Patrick sneaks away drunk:
"Tell family? Yes. No. Yes. No! Get in car. Ding ding ding. Fucking American car safety ding ding. Safer to assume sudden violent death. Police no please no police, p-l-e-a-s-e. Slip away over crunchy nutritious gravel ..."
Patrick (St. Aubyn's doppelgänger? I admit to frequently pondering which parts were autobiographical and came to the conclusion: much. Yes, yes, one is supposed to pretend writers, especially the great Male writer, make it all up from their maarhvelous imaginations, but I'm calling bollocks on this one--a term I've never actually used before--as I am sick of the idea that autobiographical fiction is somehow less worthy than whatever else it is that other writers supposedly write. The argument is about as pointless as those about adverbs, POV, and the passive vs active voice, as the chosen winner is usually just the style that is in vogue by whatever writer is in vogue at the moment. Phew. Glad we got that settled. Now back to my brief review.) is a sharply detailed character, a quick wit, and a fabulous fuck-up who remains true to his racist, misogynist, fat-phobic, homophobic ways. Yup. He is quite the rat-fink. And yet. You root for him. Sure, his parents help with that sentiment. Patrick was horrifically abused as a child--and, seriously, aristocratic English society has never looked so bad. (Princess Margaret even makes a bovine appearance. One wonders why on earth people get so devoted to the crown. But, alas, they do.) The books on the whole wrestle the idea: are we free to become our own persons, separate from our parents? Or are we doomed to repeat and repeat the endless cycles of pain?
A taste of the St. Aubyn's prose-y goodness from Book 2:
"Patrick stared at the dented hubcap of an old white station wagon. It had seen so much, he reflected, and remembered nothing, like a slick amnesiac reeling in thousands of images and rejecting them instantly, spinning out its empty life under a paler wider sky."
Or this as his drug supplier takes a hit:
"Pierre's pupils dilated for a moment and then contracted again, like the feeding mouth of a sea anemone."
But also the unexpected wisdom:
"Of course it was wrong to want to change people, but what else could you possibly want to do with them?"
Or: "Above all, he wanted to stop being a child without using the cheap disguise of becoming a parent."
And the funny. Well, funny out of context, is not funny, but here's a small sample as Patrick sneaks away drunk:
"Tell family? Yes. No. Yes. No! Get in car. Ding ding ding. Fucking American car safety ding ding. Safer to assume sudden violent death. Police no please no police, p-l-e-a-s-e. Slip away over crunchy nutritious gravel ..."