The Sweet Smell of Psychosis: A Novella

The Sweet Smell of Psychosis is classic Will Self. He has such a delightful and distinctive writing style. Sardonic, monstrously grotesque, twisted. And not without moments of cruelty. The story itself is almost irrelevant. I find myself reading and rereading certain passages, charmed by the sounds of the language yet nauseated by the sentiment. I end up looking up a lot of words, which slows me down. For any given word I didn't recognize, I wasn't sure if it is was a unique Self-neologism, British druggy underworld colloquialisms, esoteric vocabulary, or a reference that's over my head (I read the book on mostly on the run, circling words and phrases to later run through the good ol' Wikipedia, God I love that thing). The Sweet Smell of Psychosis is a nice short novella, baroque and ornate as any of self's writing but linear in its narrative. It has short little sections punctuated by illustrations, just like the old chapter books I used to read in grade school. I like that. Like a rat pressing the lever in an old skinner box, I find myself reading faster, turning pages hoping for the intermittent reward of a illustration. Martin Rowson's illustrations certainly liven things up, (although I was a little self-conscious reading it in the heat-wave, rush hour train, packed in shoulder to shoulder, with vague paranoid ideation of people reading over my shoulder) much in the same way that Ralph Steadman's demented illustrations complemented the writings of Hunter S. Thompson. The story sets itself within the post-post-modern world of media observing media, with our protagonist, Richard, being a self-loathing hack writer associating in the world of "media-associated subsidiary professionals." "They were transmitters of trivia, broadcasters of banality, and disseminators of dreck. They wrote articles about articles, made television programmes about television programmes..." (sic, as pertains to that unpleasantly odd British spelling) "They traifficked in the glibbest, slightest, most ephemeral cultural reflexivity, enacting a dialogue between society and its conscience that had all the resonance of a foil individual pie dish smitten with a paperclip." Richard is sinking deeper and deeper into the dopaminergic driven psychosis of cocaine abuse, and finds himself unable to separate himself from the gravitational field of Bell, a charismatic but treacherous talk show host, and Bell's sycophantic clique. Within that clique is Ursula, who Richard falls in love and the story is centered around Richard's attempts to connect with her and disconnect the both of them from Bell's vicious druggy world. So, on some level, it is a quite charming boy-meets-girl love story. But with Self's unique style. For example, when a hung-over, burnt-out Richard gets a laugh from Ursula, "By God! He'd said something right! A thousand thousand pink flamingos lifted off from the volcanic lake of Richard's stomach." Two brief paragraphs later, when Ursula

This joyfully venomous novella, whose title invokes the excellent Burt Lancaster/Tony Curtis film Sweet Smell of Success (1957), is ostensibly intended to satirize the sorts of tabloid hack journalists who had enjoyed themselves so thoroughly at the expense of Martin Amis, Will Self's literary godfather, several years ago. But, perhaps just because I'm not British, there did not seem to be anything presslike about the characters; instead it seemed just a vicious, but worthwhile, savaging of the sort of amoral, ambisexual, drug-addled, sensation-chasers who are all too common in every walk of life and line of work these days. Richard Hermes is an entirely minor features writer who has become caught up in the vortex of young journalists who revolve around Bell, a constant media presence known for bedding any man or woman he sets his eye on, sort of Larry King crossed with a satyr. Richard recognizes the emptiness of the lives the group leads, and still has a sufficient remnant of decency to be repelled by the acts of needless cruelty that they thrive on, however, he's fallen in lust with Ursula Bently, an icy blonde beauty, who hangs with this crowd, but whom he compares to "a diamond found in a gutter behind a Chinese takeaway." Richard pays court to the intermittently receptive Ursula, and descends deeper and deeper into a paranoid cocaine-induced haze, in which everyone around him seems to resemble Bell. He harbors the improbable hope that Ursula is redeemable and that the two of them can break out of Bell's gravitational pull to live happily ever after. But in the end, even as he plans to get away from the City and Bell, to return home for the Christmas holiday, Richard finally gets his chance to bed down Ursula, though the experience proves less than heavenly.If the book is intended to say something specific about the press, it escaped me entirely. No one actually seems to perform any kind of work in the book, it's all clubbing, drugging, drinking, and scrumping. But taken simply as a cautionary tale, a warning that by being with these people you become one of them and sink into the abyss, it worked well enough.GRADE : B

IT was amazing to read a book that through it's title gives you the clue that this book will be wierd, but to still be taken aback at how twisted the reels of faces can become when reading such a well written book.

never read a book/story quite like this. the words and descriptions self uses are unique and powerful, his biggest strength in the novel. a fast and dark story that unfolds in a rather shocking ending. i wish it was longer; its only shortcoming. the artful drawings in the book are hilarious/fascinating. don't hesitate to pick up this prize.