Book Review: Bright Lights, Big City

I love the thrill of a good book. For me, this means not just having a compelling story, but the language, the maturation of the characters and the logic of the story have to be so engrossing that I can’t stop thinking about anything else. I relish becoming so enamored with a book that I feel as though my mind is being literally blown… a wonderful sensation.

Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City was one such novel. Capturing the plights of a twenty something man in Manhattan, we see New York through his eyes. We meet a man who appears to have everything: a steady job at a reputable magazine, a model for a wife and socialites for friends. We spend one week with him, and quickly realize that appearances are deceiving. Instead, we live alongside him at rock bottom, and become privy to his inner-most struggles.

There are several things I loved about Bright Lights, Big City. It’s description of New York during the 1980s is not just inspiring, but allowed me to dream up a new vision of NYC, one that’s rugged and more carefree. McInerney brilliantly wrote the entire book in the second person. I don’t read a lot of books written this way, and I know this sounds crazy, but I really felt like I was actually reading for the first time. The use of symbolism was also striking. It wasn’t predictable or cheesy or overused, but subtle and poignantly illustrated a larger purpose. Lastly, McInerney’s main character is so desperate and lost, but you fall for him instantly. I immediately was on this guy’s side (even though he’s not the most likable person). I loved feeling connected to him from the start—it made the book more personal somehow.

Obviously, I loved it, and I’d like to end with one of my favorite passages:

It is a blue sunny day—much too sunny for you, thanks. Fortunately, for once you have not forgotten your Ray Bans. The lunchtime crowd churns Park Avenue. You expect people to gaze at you, horror-stricken, yet nobody pays any attention. On the corner a fat man in a Yankees cap is selling pretzels from a pushcart. A woman in a fur coat holds her right arm erect, hoping to conjure a taxi. A bus roars past. Cautiously, as if you were entering a swimming pool for the first time in years, you ease yourself into the ranks of pedestrians.

“Things happen, people change,” is what Amanda said. For her that covered it. You wanted an explanation, and ending that would assign blame and dish up justice. You considered violence and you considered reconciliation. But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name.

 

 

 

 

 

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