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Lights Out in Wonderland
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Kurzbeschreibung
Der desillusionierte Mittzwanziger Gabriel Brockwell, Ästhet, Poet und Philosoph hat das Leben satt und will ihm ein Ende setzen. Doch warum nicht vorher das Leben auf die Spitze treiben und noch einmal aus dem Vollen schöpfen, was hat man zu verlieren, wenn man eh den Selbstmord plant. Und so macht er sich auf zu einer Odyssee um die Welt, London, Tokyo, Berlin und die Galapagosinseln, auf der Suche nach Vergnügen und Genuss. Vielleicht findet er ja aber noch etwas ganz anderes auf seiner Reise: die Lust am Leben?
Über den Autor
D.B.C. Pierre wurde als Peter Warren Finlay 1961 in Old Reynella, Australien geboren, wuchs in Mexiko auf und lebt heute in Irland. Seine abenteuerliche Lebensgeschichte - eine wahre Fabel um Betrug, Schulden und Scheitern - machte Schlagzeilen, als er 2003 aus dem Nichts kam und für seinen ersten Roman den Booker Prize.
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Last night of the satyricons
25. Oktober 2010
Format:Kindle Edition
Wow. What a blitzkrieg.
As the last ripples fan to the edge of the pool, and DBC Pierre's "loose trilogy" bids the world adieu, you wonder whether he's not having trouble letting go: at least three blind summits come and go before you finally get there (I was well and truly ready for it) and even then, after the curtain has fallen, DBC seems reluctant to sign off, calling from the wings, supplying rules of interpretation and further clues to the hermeneutic after the final whistle.
You sure as hell need them, and that's no compliment from a traditionalist sort of a chap who believes a novel should stand or fall on its text as presented. I don't think you could say that in a million years about Lights Out in Wonderland, which raves and rambles all over the place, like a stream- of-consciousness fire hose that's been let go: it is bombastic, articulate, erudite, esoteric and often funny, but all the same it's a mess, it is incoherent, and I have absolutely no idea what Pierre's point was in writing it.
Narrator Gabriel Brockwell plays like something between Rik from Comic Strip's The Young Ones and Richard E. Grant's character in Withnail And I (correct: neither are likeable figures) - by turns a fruitlessly over-educated dilettante and a selfish, hypocritical prig. Despite being on the end of telling damnations from characters as he goes (his father, his flatmate, his girlfriend, and various Germans) - these are the most coherent and biting passages in the book - Gabriel sees the world as everyone else's problem, and has resolved to kill himself.
Being a self-described epicurean, philosopher and poet (Pierre appears to share this view: I'd describe Gabriel more narrowly as just a bit of a git) Gabriel wishes to end on a "nimbus" high (you sort of have to just imagine what this might be - he says "Whoosh" a lot) and so instead of quickly topping himself (which would have suited me fine) he effortlessly and implausibly glides, leaving a trail of utter destruction in his wake, from his voluntary sectioning in a mental hospital in the south of England via his London flat to precipitating an unfortunate death in a haute cuisine restaurant in Tokyo and organising an End-of-Days banquet in the soon to be derelict Tempelhof airport - once a jewel in the Nazi crown - at the centre of Berlin.
His plan is to organise a Bacchanalian feast, spring his compadre from a Japanese gaol and finally, victoriously, buy the farm.
Why this trajectory? Your guess as good as mine. Coherence doesn't seem to be a high priority for Pierre who, without so much as a by your leave, introduces characters, dilemmas and problems and just as casually jettisons them (or perhaps plain forgets about them) as he goes. It feels like this novel was written in a single, drug fueled blitz.
For all that the book remains surprisingly engaging. I got to the end, and I'm prone to binning books like this. It's so bombastic in style you can only get through it at pace, by aquaplaning, and at that pace there are consolations, though twenty four hours after putting the book down it's hard to recall what these are.
The final feast descends at the end into something resemblent of Caligula (no doubt Pierre would point instead to The Satyricon) - blackly comic, I suppose, if more than a little queasy - but I closed the book wondering what its point was, other to show off its author's obvious erudition and make the point, which hardly needed this industry, that we live in banal times.
Pierre is able and willing to descend into gothic depravity, but he isn't funny enough and nor is his satire pointed enough to make his self indulgence worth the read.
Olly Buxton
As the last ripples fan to the edge of the pool, and DBC Pierre's "loose trilogy" bids the world adieu, you wonder whether he's not having trouble letting go: at least three blind summits come and go before you finally get there (I was well and truly ready for it) and even then, after the curtain has fallen, DBC seems reluctant to sign off, calling from the wings, supplying rules of interpretation and further clues to the hermeneutic after the final whistle.
You sure as hell need them, and that's no compliment from a traditionalist sort of a chap who believes a novel should stand or fall on its text as presented. I don't think you could say that in a million years about Lights Out in Wonderland, which raves and rambles all over the place, like a stream- of-consciousness fire hose that's been let go: it is bombastic, articulate, erudite, esoteric and often funny, but all the same it's a mess, it is incoherent, and I have absolutely no idea what Pierre's point was in writing it.
Narrator Gabriel Brockwell plays like something between Rik from Comic Strip's The Young Ones and Richard E. Grant's character in Withnail And I (correct: neither are likeable figures) - by turns a fruitlessly over-educated dilettante and a selfish, hypocritical prig. Despite being on the end of telling damnations from characters as he goes (his father, his flatmate, his girlfriend, and various Germans) - these are the most coherent and biting passages in the book - Gabriel sees the world as everyone else's problem, and has resolved to kill himself.
Being a self-described epicurean, philosopher and poet (Pierre appears to share this view: I'd describe Gabriel more narrowly as just a bit of a git) Gabriel wishes to end on a "nimbus" high (you sort of have to just imagine what this might be - he says "Whoosh" a lot) and so instead of quickly topping himself (which would have suited me fine) he effortlessly and implausibly glides, leaving a trail of utter destruction in his wake, from his voluntary sectioning in a mental hospital in the south of England via his London flat to precipitating an unfortunate death in a haute cuisine restaurant in Tokyo and organising an End-of-Days banquet in the soon to be derelict Tempelhof airport - once a jewel in the Nazi crown - at the centre of Berlin.
His plan is to organise a Bacchanalian feast, spring his compadre from a Japanese gaol and finally, victoriously, buy the farm.
Why this trajectory? Your guess as good as mine. Coherence doesn't seem to be a high priority for Pierre who, without so much as a by your leave, introduces characters, dilemmas and problems and just as casually jettisons them (or perhaps plain forgets about them) as he goes. It feels like this novel was written in a single, drug fueled blitz.
For all that the book remains surprisingly engaging. I got to the end, and I'm prone to binning books like this. It's so bombastic in style you can only get through it at pace, by aquaplaning, and at that pace there are consolations, though twenty four hours after putting the book down it's hard to recall what these are.
The final feast descends at the end into something resemblent of Caligula (no doubt Pierre would point instead to The Satyricon) - blackly comic, I suppose, if more than a little queasy - but I closed the book wondering what its point was, other to show off its author's obvious erudition and make the point, which hardly needed this industry, that we live in banal times.
Pierre is able and willing to descend into gothic depravity, but he isn't funny enough and nor is his satire pointed enough to make his self indulgence worth the read.
Olly Buxton
6 von 6 Kunden fanden die folgende Rezension hilfreich
Eat This Ayn Rand!
16. September 2011
Format:Gebundene Ausgabe
I don't understand how people who are intelligent enough to read novels are capable of saying things like "I didn't like the book because the main character was not likable," as if that passes for some kind of critique. I guess such a person can stomach only stories of superheroes or else abject victims. Some people, I guess, can connect to their fellow inhabitants of this planet only through fawning admiration or pity. I am not saying such people are evil, just not the type to get your literary guidance from as they could steer you away from a book as masterful and soulful and smart as DBC Pierre's "Lights Out in Wonderland."
No writer of fiction has been this obsessed with capitalism since Ayn Rand. But Pierre is here not to worship but to pee in the fountainhead. "We don't march through an age of civilization," say Gabriel Brockwell, the novel's lyrical coke-snorting protagonist, "but float between Windows and Mac, treading water." Gabriel has decided that in the modern world the only viable options are to be a child or a thief, and he has too much brains and sensibility to be either. Thus in a lounge at rehab outside London, he formulates an air-tight rationale for self slaughter. But his plans to kill himself with panache go off the rails in Tokyo. Gabriel then finds himself dropped Wizard of Oz-like in Berlin, the capital of anti-capitalism, where he is pressed by GDR holdovers to accept a new mission. As hard as Pierre is on Starbucks, he reserves his most devastating barbs for his hero, who is reduced to a state of near human rubble by the final act.
But don't expect to see one of the hobbit actors from Lord of the Rings playing Gabriel in a movie at your neighborhood multiplex anytime soon. Just when you start to get acclimated to Pierre's world, there is a debauch to drop the jaw. A faithful adaption of this book would land its producer and director in prison. This is a book that tells you it is shocking and actually is. Stops just short of Nabokov. A few hairs.
However the ultimate destination of the novel is not a layer of hell or destruction or triumph. It is a humble tale of survival. A state of anti-nimbus of sorts, as Gabriel might put it.
No writer of fiction has been this obsessed with capitalism since Ayn Rand. But Pierre is here not to worship but to pee in the fountainhead. "We don't march through an age of civilization," say Gabriel Brockwell, the novel's lyrical coke-snorting protagonist, "but float between Windows and Mac, treading water." Gabriel has decided that in the modern world the only viable options are to be a child or a thief, and he has too much brains and sensibility to be either. Thus in a lounge at rehab outside London, he formulates an air-tight rationale for self slaughter. But his plans to kill himself with panache go off the rails in Tokyo. Gabriel then finds himself dropped Wizard of Oz-like in Berlin, the capital of anti-capitalism, where he is pressed by GDR holdovers to accept a new mission. As hard as Pierre is on Starbucks, he reserves his most devastating barbs for his hero, who is reduced to a state of near human rubble by the final act.
But don't expect to see one of the hobbit actors from Lord of the Rings playing Gabriel in a movie at your neighborhood multiplex anytime soon. Just when you start to get acclimated to Pierre's world, there is a debauch to drop the jaw. A faithful adaption of this book would land its producer and director in prison. This is a book that tells you it is shocking and actually is. Stops just short of Nabokov. A few hairs.
However the ultimate destination of the novel is not a layer of hell or destruction or triumph. It is a humble tale of survival. A state of anti-nimbus of sorts, as Gabriel might put it.
6 von 7 Kunden fanden die folgende Rezension hilfreich
Disappointing
14. August 2011
Format:Gebundene Ausgabe
I'm pretty sure Pierre was trying to create the next Patrick Bateman, with all the irreverence and style, but he falls very, very short: Whereas something about Bateman's sociopathy is easy and charming, Pierre's protagonist is brittle, affected, and unlikeable. So no, I don't want to watch him follow his overweening ego around the world in one last "orgiastic" hurrah. Plus, while I am generally a big fan of foonotes, here they are improperly used and asinine. A disappointing venture overall.
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