New
York Times (http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9806E2DE1F3FF937A35752C0A9629C8B63&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=2)
A
Bag of Heroin and a Crisp White
Shirt
Published:
January 4, 2004
Most
of the second novel takes place
inside PatrickÕs head. His father
has died and the journey to collect
the ashes becomes a 48-hour drug
binge in 1980Õs Manhattan. PatrickÕs
addled thoughts give rise to
the most stylistically ambitious
passages of the trilogy, a kind
of pharmo-phantasmagoria. After
one particularly incautious moment
of indulgence, there is a surreal
playlet performed by various
characters from his subconscious
and a few literary figures (ÒA
hit, a very palpable hit,Ó puns
the courtier from ÒHamletÓ).
It comes off like the Circe chapter
of ÒUlyssesÓ rewritten by Monty
Python, but, although copying
Joyce is a doomed enterprise,
it is perhaps an achievement
that the result is not a total
embarrassment. Where St. Aubyn
really succeeds, however, is
in evoking the desperate logistics
of serious drug use—the
careful arithmetic required to
make a limited stash last the
night and the perpetual acts
of dissimulation, like Òthat
authentic-sounding flush with
which every junkie leaves a bathroom,
hoping to deceive the audience
that crowds his imagination.Ó
By
the third novel, Patrick is clean:
ÒNowadays when I go into loos
I say to myself, ÔWhat are you
doing here? You donÕt do drugs
anymore!Õ Ò It generally takes
him a moment to realize that
heÕs in the place for its intended
purpose.
The
tone of the writing has mellowed
slightly. St. AubynÕs dandified
barbs are as acerbic as ever,
but the worldview behind them
is less unremittingly dark. Characters
who seemed hateful in the first
novel are now more forgivingly
portrayed.
The
format of the novel is, once
again, a comedy of manners, this
time arranged around that staple
of the genre, a country-house
weekend. The handling, however,
is far more assured than at the
start of the trilogy. St. Aubyn
expertly mixes pathos and humor,
most notably in a scene where
Patrick unburdens himself to
his best friend on the matter
of his childhood, but is continually
interrupted by an overzealous
waiter. St. Aubyn also pulls
off a memorable tour de force
by introducing Princess Margaret
as a fictional guest. Even those
who profess no interest in the
Royals are likely to be tantalized
by this glimpse of overpowering
obtuseness and snobbery. The
climax—in
which the French ambassador inadvertently
splatters the princessÕs dress
with food and is commanded to
clean it up (Ò ÔWipe,Õ she said
with terrifying simplicityÓ)
-- is a comic masterstroke of
which Evelyn Waugh himself might
have been proud.
The
very rich make a tricky subject
for a writer because they exist
at such a remove from the quotidian
bourgeois grind that has been,
historically, the fuel of the
novel. St. AubynÕs trilogy—a
clutch of modern novels trapped
inside the rusting armor of an
old-fashioned one—often
seems in danger of losing direction,
not unlike its hero. But it is
saved by its clearsightedness
and bitter brilliance, which
seem likely to win the admiration
of a small but extremely well-spoken
readership.
Leo Carey is on the staff of The New Yorker |