Dandy in the Underworld: An Unauthorized Autobiography (P.S.) [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

"I am not a writer. I am a performer. Writing is merely a way of bringing myself to the notice of the world." Thus says Englishman Sebastian Horsley, and he certainly got my notice in _Dandy in the Underworld: An Unauthorized Autobiography_ (Harper Perennial), although reading it is often like the horrific roadside crash you cannot take your eyes off. A reader cannot help thinking that this is yet another fake memoir; it is just too weird, too incredible, even if it were written by an actual dandy, bisexual, drug-addicted, self-obsessed, obsessive-compulsive, libertine artist. As far as I can tell, Horsley really exists, and really has had the adventures recalled here, although if he has exaggerated some for comic effect that is the least of his sins. If you want to read a memoir by an addict who has grueling tales of the overpowering effects of drugs and the profound misery that they can cause, but you don't want to be made miserable, check this out. Horsley is hilarious. He jokes on every page, witty puns and turns of phrases that simultaneously counter and highlight any grimness in his story. He may borrow (nay, steal) a phrase from Oscar Wilde or Quentin Crisp, but this is a compellingly original memoir, strange, revolting, funny, and self-serving by turns. "If you can't brag about doing something well," he advises, "then brag about doing it badly. At any rate, brag." He has taken to heart his own advice.

In a chapter which is the apology for the dandy's life ("Mein Camp"), Horsley lists gloves, shirts ("I devoted myself to their design"), hats, and suits of all colors, and let's just give you the ones that were pink: "Soft pink, hard pink, petal pink, shell pink, shocking pink, even more shocking pink, flaming pink, salmon pink, prawn-cocktail pink, spam pink. In the pink pink." He enjoyed something like a thousand prostitutes. His drug-soaked days and nights are described specifically, and with his superb choice of descriptive detail, Horsley gives an idea of the attractions of drug use as well as the rot it causes. There were various descents into hopelessness and degradation, including disastrous stints in drug rehab, which he describes with the zingy humor that infuses even the book's darkest pages. In this strange book are two extraordinary sections that would seem to have no place in it. One is Horsley's adventures in diving to find the great white shark. The other is that he got himself crucified. He went to the Philippines in 2000 for the annual Good Friday crucifixions, "a seething, chaotic, blood-spattered circus in which the profoundest devotion and the most avid entrepreneurship meet." It was part of his artistic suffering and (though he has profound disdain for religion) part of his admiration for Christ, who "... after all, had profound style. He was the ultimate dandy... All great stylists borrow a lot from the wardrobe of Christ - everything in fact except those dreadful clothes." Horsley was invited to have painkillers beforehand: "Now, the one time I actually needed drugs, I declined." He fulfills the assignment, but the foot support of his particular cross gave way as he was being raised to the vertical, so he fell off, preventing his planned half-hour stay. "Bad carpentry was the cause, as Jesus, the carpenter, would probably have well understood."

There are less spectacular peculiarities throughout the book. Horsley writes laceratingly about his wife and about himself as husband; there is a good deal of misogyny here, although upon her death he writes movingly of memories he holds. He became a fan of the Scottish gangster Jimmy Boyle, who became an artist after prison, and he discovers that Boyle had been having an affair with his wife both before and after the wedding. Horsley had an affair with him, too, but found that Boyle was an egomaniac who didn't want to talk about anyone but himself; two's a crowd for narcissists. Having paid plenty of money for prostitutes, Horsley became one himself, with decidedly mixed results. He became surprisingly successful as a stock market investor. "Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I loved money." Of course he doesn't keep it, explaining his economizing at the end of the book: "Dry your tears - I've got all the money I'll ever need - as long as I die by 4 p.m. this afternoon." Horsley warns us at the beginning, "I've suffered for my art. Now it's your turn." There are indeed grossly disturbing episodes described here, all in jocular, jaunty style that makes this one of the most peculiar autobiographies ever, and intensely readable. "You will find nothing wrong with this autobiography," he says at the end, "except a poor choice of subject."

I LOVE this book. Every line is a beautifully chosen combination of humor, pain and gut-shredding honesty and the author throws in numerous wonderful games with the language. I couldn't wait to find out what mischief Sebastian would get into next and how he would ride through the repercussions. For anyone who has aspired to much and accomplished little, this is a Bible of hope.

When I started reading this book, I was amazed at the constant barrage of glittering witticisms. Call them epigrams or bons mots or apercus. They are stunning, usually 3 or 4 per page. And then I got suspicious. One of them seemed to be pure Oscar Wilde. Another was worthy of Mark Twain. Finally, on page 89, the author admits that a lot of them had originally been written by Quentin Crisp. A few pages later, there is an uncredited but direct steal from Woody Allen, shortly followed by one from Bette Midler (who, I think, claimed that Joan Rivers stole it from her). And then he clumsily misquotes a famous one from George Herbert.

On page 258, he finally confesses to ten years of keeping "journals full of quips, gags, aphorisms, and epigrams," most of which he is quoting in this book, usually without any credit or context. Worse, he will create a paragraph that seems to be there merely to support one of these epigrams. (Which came first?--the epigram or the experience?) After a while, one gets the temptation to try to create one's own. "I would rather write a bad book than read a good one." "It's easier to steal someone else's perfect epigram than it is to create your own." "Which is worse--to invert someone else's bon mot or to invert your entire life?" "It's easier to write prose like this on drugs than it is to read it when not on drugs."

Why should we care about another rich kid who squanders his inheritance on drugs? Just because you idolized the Sex Pistols doesn't mean we have to read page after page about your drug-addled attempts to imitate them. As someone who never inherited money, I have zero sympathy for a rich kid who delights in wasting Daddy's money on crack and heroin and whores. This is a story we've read many times before, but at least it's larded with hundreds of better writers' famous witticisms.

He thanks his editor, but.... He doesn't know whether it's Ghandi or Gandhi, so he writes it both ways. He is a parachutist grabbing for "a rip chord" twice in the same paragraph. The old "its/it's" problem arises, as does "bare/bear." Once he uses "conversation" where I'm sure he meant "conversion." Some attempts at dialogue in thick Irish and/or Scottish brogue are hard to read. The most interesting part of the narrative is the author's artistic crucifixion stunt in the Philippines--a truly gruesome passage, although the omnipresent drugs apparently made it easier for him to endure than it is for us to read. Frivolous wordplay (that might be his own original work) gives us something about rather leaving out a comma than putting someone in a coma, but this thing would have been easier to read if more care had been taken with punctuation marks.