The Bookworm: 'Bright Lights, Big City'

Bright Lights, Big City. Jay McInerney. 182 pages. Vintage. 1984.

You described the feeling you’d always had of being misplaced, of always standing to one side of yourself, of watching yourself in the world even as you were being in the world, and wondering if this was how everyone felt. That you always believed that other people had a clearer idea of what they were doing, and didn’t worry quite so much about why. (pp. 166–167)

I realized a few weeks ago that my epiphany about writing does not only apply to freelance reporting, it applies to creative writing too. I’m a writer and need to write. Period.

Sitting on an end table in my room, collecting dust, is the novel I started writing three years ago. I plan to dive back into it, but I want to do some research first. Part of that research was reading Jay McInerney’s debut novel, Bright Lights, Big City.

Bright Lights, Big Cities is the story of a 24-year-old writer and magazine fact checker whose wife recently left him. To cope with the heartache and confusion, he dives headfirst into the cocaine-driven hedonism of New York City. As his life continues to unravel, he finds hope and motivation to move forward, and the courage to confront the anniversary of his mother’s death.

Much like The Mezzanine, Bright Lights, Big City was recommended to me when I was in college. It has been on my reading list ever since, but I did not get around to reading it until now. A sinus-damaged version of Things Fall Apart (which is upcoming research), Bright Lights, Big City is along the lines of what I am thinking for my novel—sans cocaine. I’m also a big fan of the movie starring Michael J. Fox, Kiefer Sutherland, and Phoebe Cates, so I have always wanted to know how it compares to the book. (Yes, it was hard not to imagine the actors playing the same roles as I read the book.)

The big thing about Bright Lights, Big City, the feature that sets it apart, is the fact it is written in the second person. You do this, you do that, you say this, you say that. I think it is the reason it was recommended to me. It is very unique; I think this is the first novel I have read that uses the second-person narrative. I was eager to see how it worked and was pleasantly surprised by how natural it felt. I expected it to be jarring and difficult to become accustomed to, but it was easy and effortless reading that did not require any adjustment.

Why is the second-person narrative used? This passage in the book may provide a clue:

Last night, Vicky was talking about the ineffability of inner experience. She told you to imagine what it was like to be a bat. Even if you knew what sonar was and how it worked, you could never know what it feels like to have it, or what it feels like to be a small, furry creature hanging upside down from the roof of a cave. She said that certain facts are accessible only from one point of view—the point of view of the creature who experiences them. You think she meant that the only shoes we can ever wear are our own. Meg can’t imagine what it’s like for you to be you, she can only imagine herself being you. (p. 101)

Though McInerney clearly invites the reader to be the narrator, we can only imagine ourselves being the narrator. Does acknowledging that (or at least accepting it could be true) defeat the purpose of using the second-person narrative? I don’t think it would be any different had the novel been written using the first or third person. How we read it would not change. Does it enable a higher level of empathy? I don’t think so. (I’m sure McInerney’s reason is out there somewhere, so I need to find it.)

Speaking of empathy, I could easily relate to the narrator as a fellow writer and cog in a publication. His experiences in the Department of Factual Verification feel eerily similar, as do his interactions with authors, editors, and staff members. (Personally, I prefer the depictions of his work life in the movie more than the book.) Lines like “Here you are again. All messed up and no place to go” (p. 10) and “After a hard day of work on other people’s manuscripts—knowing in your heart that you could do better—the last thing you wanted to do was go home and write” (p. 40) hit home. I can also relate to the narrator’s feeling of “being misplaced” and his belief “that other people had a clearer idea of what they were doing, and didn’t worry quite so much about why,” which is the reason I chose those lines for the intro quote. Interestingly, though, I feel those lines do not fit his characterization throughout the book. He seems to have been more confident and sure of himself and the direction he had taken in life before the events of the novel, so I feel that the wreck his life becomes is more unexpected and blindsiding.

Unlike The Mezzanine, Bright Lights, Big City is very well written and engaging. Some of the language is exaggerated for effect, but it is sharp and incisive overall. The language of the narrator is real and relatable, unabashed and honest. The similes and metaphors are amazing. (“Why is she looking at you that way, as if tarantulas were nesting in your eye sockets?” [p. 5].) There is constant movement and propulsion, and the repetition is spot on.

How does the book compare to the movie? It is better, of course, and features a lot of scenes that are not in the movie. McInerney wrote the screenplay, so the book and movie are alike in many ways, especially the dialogue. However, the Coma Baby does not play as big of a role in the book as he does in the movie (presuming the Coma Baby is a boy).

Though heartbreaking at times, Bright Lights, Big City is also funny, inspirational, and enlightening. It is a wild and worthwhile emotional roller coaster. Despite how depressing it can be at moments, it turns into a tale of redemption and recovery, of endurance and the power of the human resolve.