Zero, and the equally bleak and rambunctious follow-up Rules of Attraction, were sexy, and Ellis and his literary party pack (fellow young novelist Jay McInerney, editor Morgan Entrekin) were too he gained the sort of celebrity few young writers ever manage (or, these days, seek: Can you imagine Jonathan Safran Foer zonked out from clubbing, blood gushing from his nose?).
The distinction between what the author lightly fictionalizes and what he invents entirely has always been beguilingly blurry. The building is bland but the view is heady: a truly “epic view” that “reaches from the skyscrapers downtown, the dark forests of Beverly Hills, the towers of Century City and Westwood … ”Īt least that’s how Clay, the narrator we first met in Ellis’s meticulously wrought 1985 novel of underparented anomie, Less Than Zero, describes the vista from his apartment in the author’s latest book, Imperial Bedrooms. This is what he offers me, taking one for himself, after inviting me into his apartment, which sits right on the edge of West Hollywood.
Coke for Bret Easton Ellis these days comes in those 7.5-ounce mini-cans-the new, vaguely European ones containing only 90 calories.
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