Curator Reviews

Richard E. Grant

A viscerally funny, bravura dissection of fame and fortune.

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Tony McNamara

John Self is a great character—a pornographer, drug addict, narcissist, and somehow deeply compelling. The writing is fast, funny and furious. 

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Jon Robin Baitz

An incandescent novel about a hapless Englishman named John Self who is about to direct his first film in New York, but really it is the great novel about the vanishing point of the soul, that poor little invisible organ wherein it is obviated, smashed, run through and defenestrated by excess. It is a novel of the catastrophe of useless self-knowledge, self knowledge as mirage. It is THE novel of Excess; of drugs, booze, porn, sorrow, sloth, greed, and self-hatred. Mr. Amis allows himself to appear here and there, to try and get Mr. Self to help himself before all is lost. All IS lost. The book is populated exclusively by monsters, and all of them are hilarious, gaspingly so. Most thrilling though is Amis’s masterful command of the hypnotic, mesmeric power of all these fucking words strung together like firelights across the Atlantic.

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