Read the first 60 pages of Lunar Park and you might be tempted to re-jig your week so you can fit this novel in. You feel excited to be reading something in prime condition from one of the US's most inconsistent novelists. In those first few pages, he makes some fine jokes about opening lines (his own) and even manages to get one in of his own that sounds fittingly memorable and meaningless. It's frightening stuff (Any lingering thoughts that I might be reading Glamorama were painlessly extinguished) and climaxes with a frenetic, witty description house party (with Jay McInerney cameo) where the Ellis personas go into meltdown. He goes over his career in rollicking confessional mode, gleefully exposing himself with all the recklessness of a writer of fiction. Which he still is. For after these 60 pages, things start to get seriously weird for the narrator Brett. His life goes badly downhill. But so does the writing. All of a sudden the great prose, the crackling dialogue, the wit, it just goes. He starts writing in these stupid short, descriptive sentences that would be beneath King or Koontz. Things get very, very weird. It's interesting for a while (Ellis is stalked by a Patrick Bateman character) but it soon becomes obvious he hasn't a clue where he's going with this or what it means. It's like he sat down, knocked out the first half in an unstoppable flow and then burnt himself out with a half a manuscript left. I'll probably re-read that first part. I'll just know to stop after the party next time.