Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.
But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'
As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."
As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.
Anyway. Enjoy.
Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.
[...]
The only other character here is Brandy Alexander, who's laid out, shotgunned, at the bottom of the staircase, bleeding to death.
[...]
[...]
Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.
[...]
It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.
Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.
[...]
Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
[...]
Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor.
Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."
Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"
Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"
Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"
As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"
Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead.
Probably that goes for anybody in the world.
Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.
[...]
My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.
[...]
The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower.
[...]
This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"
It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.
This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.
Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.
"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"
This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.
[...]
"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."
[...]
So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "
So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.
Give me attention.
Flash.
Give me adoration.
Flash.
Give me a break.