EMILY
MAGAZINE (www.emilymagazine.com/2006/05/some_hope.html)
May
30, 2006
Some
Hope
Sometimes
the world seems overwhelmingly full of books to read, especially when the
weather is nice and every activity pales in comparison to sitting outside and
finishing the awesome and oddly suspenseful book one is in the middle of. You
can probably tell from my use of the third person that the book I've been
reading is by a British person. The one before it (One Good Turn) was too, and
I just wrote in an email that something would be 'lovely' so I should probably
read an American book next so as to avoid the risk of developing some frightful
(crossed out) awful Madonna accent. But it will be hard to prevent myself from
rushing out to the bookstore and buying Mother's Milk after after I finish the
final book of Edward St. Aubyn's 'Some Hope' trilogy, which is available in
a handsome paperback edition from Open City Books.
The first novel,
Never Mind, finds five-year-old Patrick Melrose and his unspeakably horrible
parents at their chateau in the South of France, where the action centers
around a dinner party at which upper-crusty assholes try to insult each other
to death. The second novel, Bad News, catches up with 22 year old Patrick in
New York, where he's embarking on a manic speedball binge in order to
commemorate the recent death of his evil father. The final book finds Patrick
at 30; I'm only a few pages in, but horrible aristocrats are already behaving
stupidly.
Kirkus calls St. Aubyn's style "an unlikely blend of
Henry James and Bret Easton Ellis," and I haven't been able to come up
anything more apt -- maybe Evelyn Waugh meets Mary Gaitskill, but still with
some Bret Easton Ellis sprinkled over the top? With a side of Alan
Hollinghurst? And only the very best aspects of each? Here, see what I
mean:
ÒDuring lunch David felt that he had perhaps pushed
his disdain for middle-class prudery a little too far. Even at the bar of the
Cavalry and Guards Club one couldnÕt boast about homosexual, paedophiliac
incest with any confidence of a favourable reception. Who could he tell that he
had raped his five-year-old son? He could not think of a single person who
would not prefer to change the subject – and some would behave far worse
than that. The experience itself had been short and brutish, but not altogether
nasty. He smiled at Yvette, said how ravenous he was, and helped himself to the
brochette of lamb and flageolets.Ó
Here
are a couple of good interviews with St. Aubyn which you should
probably save until after you've read at least some of the books. ( I have
recently decided that I like to know as little as possible about an author
before reading his work; it keeps me from disliking things for bad and dumb
reasons, such as envy or class angst).
I was going to write more, but
then I got to the point in the Independent interview where he says,
"All serious writing is attracted to places which aren't already
filled up with words. It's always going to be some kind of raid on the
inarticulate; either something has to be taboo, as is the case with Never Mind,
or on the fringes of unconsciousness, as with Bad News. It has to be on the
edge of what's sayable, or it's not worth saying. If it's already covered with
words like weevils on a biscuit, there is no point, is there?"
and so I decided not to.
—emily, May 30, 2006 12:49 PM