Recently I tried a book given to me by a friend that didn't click for me. My friend said, I guess this was your Bright Lights, Big City--a book I recommended to her. Humor is a funny, very individual thing, and this is one of my favorite books, while my friend hated it and abandoned it mid-read. It might help that I'm a native New Yorker. I admit I got a kick at seeing my city through the narrator's eyes and recognizing such things as the manic energy, the emptiness of the club scene, the insanity you find on the streets, buses and subways, and above all the city treasure, the New York Post headline, that was at it's absurdest best in the early 80s when this book was published.
And mind you, my friend actually likes books in second person. That very likely is why you've heard of the book, and why you might be curious to try it. The entire short novel is written in the very rare second person, present tense point of view. That might seem like a stunt, a gimmick, and I admit that is what made me curious. But one of the tests of an outre technique like that is do you notice it for the entire book, or does it disappear after a while? For me, very quickly, I got used to it and didn't notice it--not consciously. But I do think second person gives a certain tone to the book. That very friend who didn't like this book actually likes the use of second person--she feels it's very good in its distancing at conveying damage, and the narrator is exactly that--damaged.
For my friend as I recall, too damaged. One of the scenes I found funniest in the book with a certain ferret was her breaking point. Does this yuppie cokehead ever wise up she asked me? Sorta. What does happen is that 157 pages into the book we learn the source of his damage, and it was enough for me at least to feel for him and forgive him. As for change--well, there's that subtle hint--and I loved it for its subtlety--in the very last line.
