This is not an exit.

And so my life crashes back down from yesterday's unimaginable highs, and I find myself sitting here, contemplating on how I can possibly explain how perfect yesterday was to anyone who might read this, but the words are simply failing me. I say 'words', but I really mean 'eloquent words', because I don't think that OhMyGodBretEastonEllisgavemeahugohmygodzzzzwowowwowwhatthefuckiamcryingwithjoy is really very fitting for a student of English Literature.

But that is how I am feeling right now.

Because yesterday, 16th July 2010, I went to London, and I met my very favourite author (and one of my very favourite men) Bret Easton Ellis. Not once did I meet him, but twice, first at his book signing and then later that day at a simply beautiful talk that he did for Grazia magazine's new book club (check out next week's issue...there may be a sly photo of Hayley and me in there).

There is a public-born perception of Bret Easton Ellis that makes him seem aloof, intimidating, possibly even pretentious, but I saw none of that yesterday. I met a charming, hilarious, fascinating, kind and very genuine man, who seemed almost as excited to meet us as we were to meet him. He was astonishingly cool, and, when he was giving his talk and was wearing glasses and a very nice suit, actually very sexy (hmm...but maybe that's just me...) He gave both me and Hayley hugs, he posed for photos, he chatted away to us as he signed our books and then later when we met him after his talk, he answered our questions and offered to have more photos with us, even going as far as to ask whether or not the picture had taken properly.

There is a saying that goes 'never meet your heroes'. Well, I do not believe in that. Yesterday, I met my hero. I met the man who wrote seven of the greatest books I have ever read. The man whose brain created my favourite characters: Clay, Julian, Patrick Bateman, Brian Metro, Paul Denton, Victor Ward. The man who wrote Lunar Park, which broke my heart.

I met Bret Easton Ellis. I keep saying those words to myself because I am finding it very difficult to believe.

Photos of the rest of my day in London will follow very shortly.

I never liked anyone and I'm afraid of people.

Today I read Bret Easton Ellis' new novel, Imperial Bedrooms. I realise that most of my blog posts these days involve Bret, but this new novel of his - a sequel to Less Than Zero - is very blogworthy.

The book is beautiful. Physically, it is beautiful; the cover is incredible. And the novel itself is, the more I think about it, the only logical way that Less Than Zero could be continued without the story becoming tacky or
clichéd.

Clay, the protagonist, is, in Less Than Zero, one of my very favourite characters ever written. He is just so...vague. And yet there is definitely something there behind that that I find absolutely fascinating, but which is difficult to explain. In Imperial Bedrooms, this side of Clay that wants to 'see the worst', as he explains in LTZ, is explored in depth. He is such a creep. And I love it.

He is just such a great character. Everything he says is so distant and uncaring, and even when you think - or worry - that he is going to turn into some sap, he beats some lass up. Fantastic.

Reading this only confirmed for me that B.E.E is one of the greatest novelists of our generation. His style is so honest and real. Unlike some of his contemporaries - Douglas Coupland or Jay Mcinenry, for example - the speech is actual human speech, and for me that is one of the best things about his novels.

But in Imperial Bedrooms, it was the very last paragraph that did it for me. That last line, and the dates written there. I smiled. I think my jaw probably dropped. It was perfection.

I keep staring past the palm trees, watching the skies.

'My dreams start out calmly. I'll be younger and walking home from school and the day will be overcast, clouds gray and white and some of them purple. Then it'll start to rain and I'll begin to run. After running through all this falling water for what seems to be a really long time, I'll suddenly trip into mud and fall flat on the ground and because the earth's so wet, I start to sink, and the mud fills my mouth and I start to swallow it and it goes up through my nose and finally into my eyes and I don't wake up until I am completely underground.'

- Bret Easton Ellis, 'Less Than Zero'

Oh my God. BRET.

Oh my God. Bret Easton Ellis is doing a book signing. In England. In England. In a place that I can actually get to. My God. I am going to meet Bret Easton Ellis. I am actually going to be in his presence. My hands are shaking.

I discovered this little piece of information this morning, after I had all but given up hope that he was going to come here. He is doing a book reading in Nottingham, and a signing in London, and I think I would prefer to go to the signing. At least that way I definitely get to meet him. I love him. Oh my goodness!

I am so excited that I am having a bit of trouble breathing.

"Action Unites. Words Divide."

I finally finished Glamorama, by Bret Easton Ellis. It was absolutely...pointless. I adored it, I really did. It was classic Ellis: gripping, hilarious, truly nauseating at times, and absolutely beautifully written, but there was no ending.

Usually I hate novels like Ellis writes; pretentious books written to be analyzed and criticised. But he writes them in such a charming and (I hate the word, but) edgy way, and with such flourishes of complete and utter genius that I fall in love every time. Glamorama was entirely as funny and sarcastic as his previous novels that I have read, and (quite surprisingly) there was a semblance of a plot in there, rather than just a series of events occurring and interlapping. It would have been a novel of literary perfection if only the end had not been so frustrating.

Despite the fact that he's an absolute wimp, I like Victor Ward/Johnson, the leading protagonist. There was slightly more inside him to connect to than with say Clay in Less Than Zero (although incidentally I adore him, too). Victor is funny. You forgive him his ridiculous vanity and culture obsessions because he seems so unaware. And when he realises that everything he lives for is bullshit, he tries to move on. So yeah, I sort of became attached to him. I wanted an ending. I wanted answers.

But no. Ellis doesn't write to give answers. He doesn't even write towards an answer. There seems to be no logical conclusion to his writing. I suspect that this is part of his genius; it really leaves you craving more. I cannot decide whether Ellis writes for his characters or for the story. Possibly both. Probably neither.

Glamorama is an exceptional book. It is, I think, a very honest novel (particularly when you consider the circles that Ellis himself has spent time in). I'm almost sad that I've finished it because I enjoyed reading it so much (despite the constant headache I had from frowning so much in confusion).

So if you want to see where they blatantly stole the idea for Zoolander from, read it. If you want something to really think about, read it. If you want a novel with clues and answers and a nice round ending, go and read Harry Potter, you pussy.



A few of my favourite Glamorama quotes:

- Even though we've never met she looks eerily familiar, as if we've known her forever.

- "JD, I'm in the middle of becoming some kind of brooding god," I groan.

- "Hey baby, we're all in this together," I grunt, my hands dusted with chalk. "Yeah, I wanna give this all up and feed the homeless. I wanna give all this up and teach orangutans sign language. I'm gonna bike around the countryside with my sketchbook. I'm gonna - what? Help improve race relations in this country? Run for fucking president? Read my lips: Spare me."

- "Dad, life is tacky."

- "Everyone here is just...so...dead."

- ...and above me the morning sky is white and I'm thinking. Stay indoors, go to sleep, don't get involved, view everything without expression, drink whiskey, pose, accept.

- Silence, empty and graceless. I'm staring at them, unable to take all this in because of certain details my mind cannot accept, and that lack of importance is spreading and I'm looking at this through a window and it's being boarded up and it's night and no one has said or is going to say who they really are.

"I'm fizzy with excitement"

Yesterday I began reading my fifth Bret Easton Ellis book in the past fortnight, Glamorama. Perhaps I should have read them in published order (his characters often reappear in subsequent novels). So far I have gone through American Psycho, Lunar Park, Less Than Zero and The Informers. American Psycho is, of course, the best, even though large portions of the book are physically nauseating (you try and read a chapter about a woman literally being chewed apart while you're trying to eat your lunch. Unpleasant). It helps that when reading it I can picture Christian Bale (who, incidentally, was utterly perfect for the part).

The thing about Ellis' writing that's so captivating though, is that it's real. Not real in the 'oh yeah, we're all multi-million dollar earning models/actors/Wall Street bastards' sense, but real in the style of the writing. The dialogue is real. If you've never spoken to someone doped up to the eyeballs, maybe you can't imagine how necessary those little ...'s are that Ellis uses. And as corny as it might sound, the pain that Ellis writes into his characters - or, as the case often is, the lack of emotion entirely - is completely visual. It's beautiful.

But the thing that my friend Hayley and I decided was the most perfect thing about Ellis' writing was his use of sarcasm. His books - especially American Psycho and Lunar Park - are brimming with sarcasm. It is, I think, what makes his characters so believable, the same way that Clare and Henry are in (my favourite novel of all time) The Time Traveller's Wife. The conversations they have are written like real conversations, not like book conversations. The language used is how a person would really speak, and that is the mark of a really talented writer.

Hayley has written her own Ellis-loving post on her blog (http://theyhadmadeamovieaboutus.blogspot.com/2010/03/there-is-no-real-me-only-entity.html) which is what inspired me to write mine - I wanted to explain somewhere how much this author has affected me.

Roll on June 2010 and Ellis' new novel, Imperial Bedrooms.