"People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles."
This is a line from Bret Easton Ellis' novel Less Than Zero which I am reading, once again. I first encountered it while taking a college literature course as an elective. After spending hours at Booksale the other day, I found it hidden among stacks of Mills and Boon's, old issues of National Geographic magazines, and some Atkin's diet books. Bought it for 40 bucks. Cool.
If Jack Kerouac's On the Road is an exalting read for me, Bret's debut novel is an exhausting experience. Using stream of conciousness, Less than Zero has tempted me to have a taste of decay, not only from the novel's characters, but also from things happening around me. The book shows how lives can be devoid of passion and full of hollowed dreams. For the characters, as well as for others in the real world, detachment was, and still is, a cure.
As I finish the last page, I stare blankly through the window of my 4th floor apartment and see the city lights gradually come to life. I know that later tonight my friends and I will be in some meaningless meanderings, club hopping, drinking, flirting - just living the youthful life - and beneath are still afraid to merge.
Or is it not? We all head for the freeway, after all.
