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A review by screamdogreads
The Shards by Bret Easton Ellis
4.5
"Many years ago I realized that a book, a novel, is a dream that asks itself to be written in the same way we fall in love with someone: the dream becomes impossible to resist, there's nothing you can do about it, you finally give in and succumb even if your instincts tell you to run the other way, because this could be, in the end, a dangerous game."
Review updated as of my re-read (17.5.24–20.5.24)
The Shards is a Valium and acid washed haze of a novel. It's pure and utter ridiculousness to the very max, an entirely obsessive experience, a novel that's as much about sex and death in L.A. as it is about numbness as a feeling. It's almost an impossible novel to describe, reading much more like an autobiographical account than fiction. It straddles the line, in fact it tramples all over the line between hedonistic, glamorous 80s thriller and true crime novel. As breathtaking as it is depraved and perverse, The Shards is akin to experiencing the most beautifully written of gay erotica, with a serial killer plot unfurling in the background.
It's a massive, sprawling thing, repetitive and entirely self-absorbed to such a degree that it's been suggested that this novel is in dire need of an editor. However, the excessive, obsessive, paranoia laden degree with which this novel repeats itself only adds to its drama and mystery. There's something so wildly addictive and absorbing about The Shards, something that's almost too difficult to define. It's one of the most unrestrained, unapologetically American novels to exist. It's this spiraling, sad, clandestine thing yet it's packed full of this strange feel-good factor that clouds it all. The glitz, the glam, the cars and all the sex and drugs, the music, even, it's all encased in so much joy, yet it's such a dark and twisted novel.
Review updated as of my re-read (17.5.24–20.5.24)
The Shards is a Valium and acid washed haze of a novel. It's pure and utter ridiculousness to the very max, an entirely obsessive experience, a novel that's as much about sex and death in L.A. as it is about numbness as a feeling. It's almost an impossible novel to describe, reading much more like an autobiographical account than fiction. It straddles the line, in fact it tramples all over the line between hedonistic, glamorous 80s thriller and true crime novel. As breathtaking as it is depraved and perverse, The Shards is akin to experiencing the most beautifully written of gay erotica, with a serial killer plot unfurling in the background.
It's a massive, sprawling thing, repetitive and entirely self-absorbed to such a degree that it's been suggested that this novel is in dire need of an editor. However, the excessive, obsessive, paranoia laden degree with which this novel repeats itself only adds to its drama and mystery. There's something so wildly addictive and absorbing about The Shards, something that's almost too difficult to define. It's one of the most unrestrained, unapologetically American novels to exist. It's this spiraling, sad, clandestine thing yet it's packed full of this strange feel-good factor that clouds it all. The glitz, the glam, the cars and all the sex and drugs, the music, even, it's all encased in so much joy, yet it's such a dark and twisted novel.
"The Valium had fully kicked in, everything was really so ridiculous behind the barrier: the party, Matt's death, the cocaine, Terry groping Robert, Terry on his knees in the bathroom downstairs, the Trawler's madness, the disappearing girls - all of it. The casual use of "babe" was another confirmation of what was happening, a beam of light in a darkened cave where other beams of light were suddenly appearing, illuminating the truth."
Coming back to this intense of a story over a whole year later has made my realize that for so long, I've been pining to experience this again. Ultimately, it's a tale of liars, it's obsessive and filled with tons of gay sex and questionable morals and detestable people, it really makes you think, if a potential serial killer was hot enough, would you still fuck him? It's absolutely one of the most self-indulgent, self-obsessive pieces of literature out there. All the best novels in the world are self-indulgent - Bret writes about what he is obsessed by, and it shows, it's as if we're treated to peering inside the high-school diary of the author himself.
The Shards is like experiencing the most elegant of fever-dreams. It's the kind of book that makes you really think, really process, what it means to experience something, anything, it asks you if you can feel nostalgic about something you've never had. Bret has so authentically captured the teenage experience, recounted through the eyes of a grown man, that it can resonate with almost anyone. There's an abundance of sex and violence packed into this story, it's wall-to-wall graphic and disturbing brutality, at times it's fucking ugly, but at times it's also extremely beautiful. While not for the squeamish, there's a charm that simply cannot be ignored. I honestly think that I'll love this novel forever.
"I became mildly freaked out that week even though there was an element about the announcement of the Trawler - a confirmation of evil - that made everything vibrate softly with melodrama and I almost became excited in the atmosphere that was playing out: heightened, lightly dangerous, somewhat sexualized. There was an initial narrative that I was creating against the backdrop of these sickening crimes that felt like being in a movie."