Saturday, June 27, 2009

Jeff in Venice, etc.

A book I unfortunately can’t finish – not being able to reach the headset of Mann, Amis, Ginsburg or half of the other fellows this reviewer ties the book to. Maybe I could have related more if my trip to Venice was as Bellini-and-blow fueled as the narrator’s, who supposedly is a hero in a dumbass antihero’s costume. The reviewers say he is bored with his drug antics but at the age of 45, I’d say he is pretty damn lucky his heart hasn’t given out. I lost patience around the time the dude was shocked that his love interest said a smart thing, to which he replied (loosely quoted): “What are you doing talking like that, working in the art world?” “I know,” she tells him, “I am going to leave and become a hedge fund manager.”

But then we only know her by her mane, her smell, the turn of her ankle and sandals, nice dresses and underwear. As a Californian object she was so sweetly drawn that shit it was a shocker when she had something intelligent to say. He hardly knows her when before we all know it, they’re on to the ol’ 69. Acrobatic but so easy. Maybe I’m just jealous – why wasn’t my Venice Biennale like that?

2 comments:

CAP said...

Sounds like a laugh. But it's probably downhill from the title.

Dyer is one of those Guardian writers that wishes he was Evelyn Waugh or Kingsley Amis, rather than Martin, the pretender...

Skip the eng lit cribs and cut to the sex. There are no female characters in these books, just opportunities for the author to dress up in drag.

Eva said...

I am glad you filled me in. I thought maybe I was missing something, but hey I tried. Still it's amazing to me how many people like that writing. It's like one half of the population is a mere prop.