Knopf released Bret Easton Ellis's Imperial Bedrooms on Tuesday. I finished it today. It is totally wonderful. As a sequel to his debut novel, which he published at 21 (Ryan shifts enviously in his seat), it takes up with most of the primary characters in Less Than Zero as they find themselves 25 years later. It begins with a bit of haute postmodernism: "They had made a movie about us", referring to the movie made of the first novel. From there, it quickly leaves that kind of cleverness behind and the plot (yes, there's a plot) splashes and dribbles out as a post-millennial uber-nihilistic noir.

My impressions/synopsis:

• Clay is developed as a character to an extent he was not in Less Than Zero;
• The ubiquitously reviewed Clay-goes-Patrick-Batemen scenes are frankly a lot more tame than the reviews suggest;
  
• The Lynchian-terror motif that BEE is so good at is all over the place in this book;
• Clay remains the star and Rip is the breakout character in this one.
  

Ellis is doing a signing and reading at the Elliot Bay Bookstore in a couple weeks. I am already trying to come up with something I can ask him to inscribe in my copy. So far, I am leaning toward:

"Your writing is overly precious and highly derivative."

I think it would be good sick fun to get scathing criticism of my writing from one of my literary heroes who has never read a word of mine.

Anticipating Imperial Bedrooms, I re-read Less Than Zero recently. One of the many great passages I enjoyed revisiting, which captures his aesthetic so well:

Christmas in Palm Springs. It was always hot. Even if it was raining, it was still hot. One Christmas, last Christmas, after it was all over, after the old house was left, it got hotter than a lot of people could remember. No one wanted to believe that it could get as hot as it had become; it was simply impossible. But the temperature readings at the Security National Bank in Rancho Mirage would read 111 and 112 and 115 and all I could do was stare at the numbers, refusing to believe that it could get that hot, that hellish. But then I'd look across the desert and a hot wind would whip into my face and the sun would glare down so hard that my sunglasses couldn't keep the shine away and I'd have to squint to see that the metal grids in the crosswalk signs were twisting, writhing, actually melting in the heat, and I knew that I had to believe it.
The nights during Christmas weren't any better. It would still be light at seven and the sky would stay orange until eight and the hot winds would come through the canyons and filter out over the desert. When it got really dark the nights would be black and hot and on some nights these weird white clouds would drift slowly through the sky and disappear by dawn. It would also be quiet. It was strange to drive down 110 at one or two in the morning. There wouldn't be any cars out, and if I stopped by the side of the road and turned the radio off and rolled down the windows, I couldn't hear anything. Only my own breath, which was all raspy and dry and came in uneven gasps. But l wouldn't do this for long, because I'd catch a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror, sockets red, scared, and I'd get really frightened for some reason and drive home quickly.
Early evenings were about the only time I'd go outside. I'd spend this time by the pool, eating banana popsicles and reading the Herald Examiner, when there was some shade in the backyard, and the pool would be totally still except for an occasional ripple caused by big yellow and black bees with huge wings and black dragonflies, crashing into the pool, driven mad by the insane heat.
Last Christmas in Palm Springs, I'd be lying in bed, naked, and even with the air conditioner on, the cool air blowing over me and a bowl of ice, some of it wrapped in a towel, next to the bed, I couldn't become cool. Visions of driving through town and feeling the hot winds on my shoulder and watching the heat rise up out of the desert would make me feel warm and I'd force myself up and walk downstairs out onto the deck by the lighted pool in the middle of the night and I'd try to smoke a joint but I could barely breathe. I'd smoke it anyway, just to get to sleep. I could only stay outside for so long. There'd be these strange sounds and lights next door, and I'd go back upstairs to my room and lock the door and finally fall asleep.
When I woke up in the afternoon, I'd come downstairs and my grandfather would tell me that he heard strange things at night and when I asked him what strange things, he said that he couldn't put his finger on it and so he'd shrug and finally say that it must have been his imagination, probably nothing. The dog would bark all night and when I'd wake up to tell it to be quiet, it would look freaked out, its eyes wide, panting, shaking, but I'd never go outside to see why the dog was barking and I'd lock myself back in my room and put the towel, damp, cool, over my eyes. The next day, out by the pool, there was an empty package of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. No one smokes cigarettes in the family. The next day my father had new locks put on all the doors and the gates in back, while my mother and sisters took the Christmas tree down, while I slept.