Or we might even be going further than that to a dystopian world I don’t know,” says the wary but gentle-looking Ellis, who is barefoot and wearing a blue hoodie. Ellis dates this period from 1945 until 2005. Today, Ellis, who’s 46, refers to that era, with a touch of irony, as “Empire,” which is a reference to Gore Vidal’s definition of global American hegemony. It was never ‘Let’s not get the bottle of Cristal’ … It was the beginning of a time when it was almost as if the novel itself didn’t matter anymore-publishing a shiny booklike object was simply an excuse for parties and glamour.” It was always the front seat of the roller coaster. His last book, Lunar Park, is even narrated by “Bret Easton Ellis,” and includes a satirically nostalgic look back at boldface literary precocity: “It was always the A booth. 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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