★★★★★ | Literary Fiction | Digital | Borrow | StoryGraph | Goodreads
I didn’t like this book at first. I felt claustrophobic, there in the first chapter, squeezed in at the kids’ table surrounded by a large group of strangers at a Manhattan apartment dinner party. These guests were too witty, overly confident, and entirely full of themselves. Who talks like this? And more pressing, who would want to read an entire novel with these assholes?
But I persevered. In fact, it was the Manhattan setting of this book that initially drew me. I lived in New York in the mid-1990s and recently returned to an apartment on the Upper East Side, where much of the story takes place. McInerney’s first book, Bright Lights, Big City, helped to convince me to move to New York when I read it in college. The descriptions of the city, its magic, and absurdity were spellbinding. The city itself becomes a character in the story, which we follow over a year, from the bitter cold of winter through the languor of summer to the bracing beauty of fall.
The story hinges upon a risky takeover attempt of a publishing company right before the great market crash of 1987. I worked in finance in NYC in the aftermath of this, and McInerney captured the spirit of these times exceptionally well.
As the book progresses, cracks in the characters’ foundations soon appear, which brings depth and allows for compassion. Themes emerge: the loss of youthful idealism, the fraud and sanctity of marriage, alcoholism and addiction, poverty and prejudice, the hubris of men and relentless pursuit of wealth and status, and the inevitability of decline and death.
Piling up stones, he had forgotten all about mortar.
The novel’s title comes from the 16th-century poem Litany in the Time of the Plague by Thomas Nashe, which in a single stanza captures the book’s very essence:
Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Yes, there were flaws. At times, McInerny opted for the expensive word when a simpler one would have been better. The story arc for the two black characters in the novel felt contrived and stereotypical.
I think if I had read this book in my twenties or thirties, most of it would have flown right over my head. But now, reading this here in New York in my mature years, I can appreciate the artistry and the message. This is truly a Great American novel, exploring important themes set in what is arguably the greatest city on earth.
Highlights
Nobody wants to change the world anymore. They just want to own it.
Writers, he thought, are people who think of the right retort long after they get home.
Sunday is the day of restlessness, dedicated to stale news, guilt and culture. The city lies stunned from its excesses and the inhabitants, when they finally venture out, walk the streets without, for once, appearing to have any immediate destination or purchase in mind.
“Do you remember what Nick Carraway said as he was driving into Manhattan in Gatsby’s big car and the skyline of the city came into view over the Queensboro Bridge? As they cross into the city, Nick says, ‘Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge … anything at all.’ ”
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
—Vonnegut.
Russell recalled his father’s rules to live by, imparted the day before he drove off to college: Never endanger a woman’s reputation, never climb on another man’s back, never talk about what you make or what things cost.
At first you loved all the idiosyncrasies of the one you loved; then, one by one, they became slightly annoying.
Corrine realized that everyone else around her was in some stage of intoxication and that it wasn’t really fun looking in from the outside. She had a small revelation, on the order of realizing that the weather was getting warmer every day: The social world of Manhattan was a machine lubricated with alcohol. And one felt very squeaky and cranky without it.
if figures of speech based on sports and fornication were suddenly banned, American corporate communication would be reduced to pure mathematics.
For the past few days, she realized, she had not felt at all in command of her own emotions; it seemed as if some powerful new force was struggling to assert itself, demanding her attention, letting her know that for the rest of her life her tears and her smiles would be subject to a new authority.
Always the same old shit, he thought. Every morning breakfast. Then it’s time for lunch. Then dinner. It all tasted like cardboard and cigarettes, and it didn’t satisfy, because it wasn’t what you really wanted. You wanted something else and you thought about it all the time, and these other, approved channels of desire and fulfillment seemed hopelessly second-rate.
As the whiskey soaked in, it occurred to him that a spouse was the person who listened to the story of your life and who, making certain allowances, chose to believe you.
The bard say, ‘When the sea was calm, all boats alike showed mastership in floating.’
Once upon a time he would have considered it romantic to try to drink away his grief. Now it seemed just analgesic.
“Sometimes I think words are like girlfriends—can’t find a good one to save your life when you’re actually looking, but when you don’t need any they’re falling out of the goddamned trees.”