In the honorable tradition of the eccentric dandyism of Lord Byron, Oscar Wilde, and Quentin Crisp comes Sebastian Horsley's disarming memoir of sex, drugs, and Savile Row.
Paperback
,
356 pages
Published
March 11th 2008
by Harper Perennial
(first published 2007)
when i was little i fell in love with john malkovich in
dangerous liaisons
.
i knew that when i grew up i wanted to be with a man who wore crushed velvet and lace cuffs and fancy shoes and was well-spoken and soulless. and they told me i would never find a straight man who dressed like that. and to all of them i now say HA!! this one is
mostly
straight... i did not realize that a man who calls himself a dandy and wears sequins and nail polish would spend quite so much time with his own feces: smea
when i was little i fell in love with john malkovich in
dangerous liaisons
.
i knew that when i grew up i wanted to be with a man who wore crushed velvet and lace cuffs and fancy shoes and was well-spoken and soulless. and they told me i would never find a straight man who dressed like that. and to all of them i now say HA!! this one is
mostly
straight... i did not realize that a man who calls himself a dandy and wears sequins and nail polish would spend quite so much time with his own feces: smearing, eating, prying out with a spoon... this book is not exclusively about poop, but i think the point is important: fancy boys can still have the most squalid of squalor going on behind closed doors. of his plagiarism i am not going to complain - he unabashedly and gleefully calls attention to it himself. he's like this gaudy magpie who writes almost entirely in epigrams; it is hyperbolic and indulgent and overwrought and overwritten and purple purple purple... but somehow it works. it's a romping sort of book that is wholly superficial but entirely in keeping with his personality. it's a fun read that doesn't really go anywhere or do anything.... like its author. but there's sex and drugs and crucifixion, and some actually touching bits at the end. and poop. did i mention poop?
This fella was denied entry into the U.S. just the other day - because of "moral turpitude". Seriously, he was cockblocked on U.S. soil for being
flamboyant
about (among other things) and mongering the whores. Moral
turpitude
.
Moral
turpitude. Knock knock. Who's there? Spitzer. Spitzer who? Spitzer swallow, the difference is 50 bucks.
***
Wow. This redneck Chernobyl
had
a copy. That's absolutely
wilde
. Lots of blurbs from the likes of Bryan Ferry, Will Self, Nick Cave and...uh...Gavin Rossdale.
Bu
This fella was denied entry into the U.S. just the other day - because of "moral turpitude". Seriously, he was cockblocked on U.S. soil for being
flamboyant
about (among other things) and mongering the whores. Moral
turpitude
.
Moral
turpitude. Knock knock. Who's there? Spitzer. Spitzer who? Spitzer swallow, the difference is 50 bucks.
***
Wow. This redneck Chernobyl
had
a copy. That's absolutely
wilde
. Lots of blurbs from the likes of Bryan Ferry, Will Self, Nick Cave and...uh...Gavin Rossdale.
But the best is by Shane McGowan: "Dandy in the Underworld shits all over William Burroughs's first two books and makes Will Self look like a ponce."
And that's just the praise. Horsley (his name reminds me of Lee Horsley - star of
Matt Houston
an 80s-era TV show) also includes Conscientious Objections by, uh, various media folk.
Also purchased the widescreen edition of
Shadow of the Vampire
. One of the
smartest
horror movies in the past ten years.
***
I actually got
weepy
near the end. An epigram (of cocaine) on every page - guaranteed to blow your mind. Recommended at the price, for those with insatiable appetites (for destruction).
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On every page there is at least two or three great one line zingers that's hysterical. On the surface he's Oscar Levent's grandchild - he must be to come off so witty. I don't fully buy his whole dandy identity, but nevertheless that doesn't make me like this book any less. He's a very (and I mean 'very') funny writer. A natural wit which is rare these days. To say I enjoyed reading this book is like asking me if I like Ice Cream on a very hot day He's a winner and afer reading the book I'm stil
On every page there is at least two or three great one line zingers that's hysterical. On the surface he's Oscar Levent's grandchild - he must be to come off so witty. I don't fully buy his whole dandy identity, but nevertheless that doesn't make me like this book any less. He's a very (and I mean 'very') funny writer. A natural wit which is rare these days. To say I enjoyed reading this book is like asking me if I like Ice Cream on a very hot day He's a winner and afer reading the book I'm still not clear in what he does for a living or his passion. I am presuming he's a visual artist -nevertheless who cares he is a genius in the cutting mark - and that's an unique talent. Buy the book and read it and have a really great chuckle.
I had no knowledge of anything substantive that Sebastian Horsley had done before I read his memoir and really, does one have to accomplish anything in life to write a misery memoir? What had Mary Karr done when she wrote The Liar’s Club. Sometimes these sorts of memoirs exist merely because it is interesting reading about the horrific lives other people lead, and there is a certain shock-element to Horsley’s memoir. He is the car wreck. But instead of not wanting to look away, you want to look
I had no knowledge of anything substantive that Sebastian Horsley had done before I read his memoir and really, does one have to accomplish anything in life to write a misery memoir? What had Mary Karr done when she wrote The Liar’s Club. Sometimes these sorts of memoirs exist merely because it is interesting reading about the horrific lives other people lead, and there is a certain shock-element to Horsley’s memoir. He is the car wreck. But instead of not wanting to look away, you want to look because you want to see what else the dandy will do for your attention. In a sense, it is less a car wreck than watching a dancing monkey. A dancing monkey with fabulous hair. And to his credit, Horsley does not claim to be much else.
Hell, I take back what I said above. Don’t save yourself the time. I say read it. Read this book. About page 75, you’ll grow tired, but dancing monkeys need money, too. And when you read it, wear jeans. And sneakers. If you are a woman, no make-up. If you are a man, squirt cheez whiz from a can straight into your mouth with every page turn. Do the cheez whiz part if you are a woman too. Then, when you are finished, take a picture of yourself naked and send it to him as a thanks for all his hard work in the field of the arts. Realize that no matter how fat, ugly, and casually dressed you may be, by sucking down that cheez whiz and photographing your dimpled ass, you have still contributed more to the art of the Western world than Horsley. And aren’t smug, unearned delusions of grandeur the best revenge? Seb would agree, I think. Read the rest of the review here:
http://ireadoddbooks.com/?p=353
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I'm fairly compulsive about finishing books that I'm reading, but even at the halfway point, I'm just not interested in this. (And that's even after taking the book with me on several long-ish train trips, with no other reading material at hand--I think I napped instead.)
One problem is an entirely personal one, and to which I will freely admit: I'm not a huge fan of the memoir genre. Other people's lives, no matter how much crazy nonsense has transpired in them, hold less of a fascination for m
I'm fairly compulsive about finishing books that I'm reading, but even at the halfway point, I'm just not interested in this. (And that's even after taking the book with me on several long-ish train trips, with no other reading material at hand--I think I napped instead.)
One problem is an entirely personal one, and to which I will freely admit: I'm not a huge fan of the memoir genre. Other people's lives, no matter how much crazy nonsense has transpired in them, hold less of a fascination for me than the stuff that people conjure up. I will say it loud, say it proud: gimme fiction.
But the other problem is that Horsley crams an average of three quips into every paragraph. The genuinely funny remarks, the really witty and Wildean observations, are diluted by his insistence on throwing everything at the wall and hoping that something, anything sticks.
I can see how other readers would dig it, and I suppose that the strange mix of bravado and insecurity that comes across in the prose conveys something about the performative/emotional space of the dandy figure, but I can't force myself to power through to the end of this one.
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Well, what can I tell you. This seemed right up my alley. Disfunctional, rich, artistic, sadistic, once-cruxified, Sebastian Horsley had all the raw material for a great memoir. If he could only rid himself of the copious one-liners chapter after chapter, this would have been a great read. In-between attempts at wit, there are some good parts, and you get the feeling that Horsley is a very sad and damaged person with a great story to tell. But then he hides behind this wacky persona, and the nar
Well, what can I tell you. This seemed right up my alley. Disfunctional, rich, artistic, sadistic, once-cruxified, Sebastian Horsley had all the raw material for a great memoir. If he could only rid himself of the copious one-liners chapter after chapter, this would have been a great read. In-between attempts at wit, there are some good parts, and you get the feeling that Horsley is a very sad and damaged person with a great story to tell. But then he hides behind this wacky persona, and the narrative falls back into feeling like it's told to you by Auntie Mame. Which is fine. If you want to spend 328 pages laughing over quips. Horsely has a fine grasp of language, I'll give him that, but I would have prefered more emotion and less emoting.
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Sebastian Horsley died of a heroin overdose earlier this year. This book is essentially his suicide note. Very early in his life Horsley created a persona (The Dandy) to help him deal with the difficulties (and there were no small amount) in his world. He played with other art forms throughout his life – music, painting, but really it is this persona and the life he led through it, that was his art.
You may be thinking at this point that the book must be very somber or depressing. It is neither;
Sebastian Horsley died of a heroin overdose earlier this year. This book is essentially his suicide note. Very early in his life Horsley created a persona (The Dandy) to help him deal with the difficulties (and there were no small amount) in his world. He played with other art forms throughout his life – music, painting, but really it is this persona and the life he led through it, that was his art.
You may be thinking at this point that the book must be very somber or depressing. It is neither; it is, in fact, often hilarious. It is stuffed to overflowing with Wildesque quips and barbs and wry observances. In fact, I often found myself cringing and laughing out loud simultaneously.
I found the blatant misogyny a little difficult to take and yes, he does often and with gusto cross the boundaries of good taste and common sense right into well… moral turpitude according to US customs. But, at the same time he is so insightfully and often, painfully self aware that it’s difficult not to like him.
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HAD to get this book by someone refused entry to the States due to moral turpitude...PLEASE. Are we one sad nation or what? Looks very promising so far. I bought way too many books at St Mark's Bookshop yesterday...
.....
my review, having finally read the book 7 months later:
The first third is in some ways the most interesting--Horsley and siblings as 'feral children,' neglected in a sort of mansion by alcoholic and out-to-lunch parents. The rest may not be as fascinating (at times tiresome), bu
HAD to get this book by someone refused entry to the States due to moral turpitude...PLEASE. Are we one sad nation or what? Looks very promising so far. I bought way too many books at St Mark's Bookshop yesterday...
.....
my review, having finally read the book 7 months later:
The first third is in some ways the most interesting--Horsley and siblings as 'feral children,' neglected in a sort of mansion by alcoholic and out-to-lunch parents. The rest may not be as fascinating (at times tiresome), but Horsely is often very funny, and apparently, open and honest about his foibles, predilections and (mis)adventures as an outlaw in life and art, sex and drugs.
The last bit is really very good. I like a lot of what Horsley has to say about life, art, addiction. Some passages from the book's end (I don't believe I need to put a "spoiler's alert" here?):
"What about fame? We all thirst for it. Our ambitions burst like some brightly coloured insects from the earthbound grub. But then we get captured, chloroformed by convention, pinned down in little suburban boxes for the rest of our life. I have fluttered like a mayfly. I have danced my glinting puzzles over life's flowing stream. Mayflies may only live for a day. But so what? To live for the day is all that there is."
"Life is a tragedy. We get washed up on some random shore and spend our lives building shelters and waving at ships. Then the tide turns. The waves crash inward and sweep the lost away.
"We are left with a desert. We end up weeping alone in an empty church. Remember me, whispers the dust."
"You may look back on your life and accept it as good or evil. But it is far, far harder to admit that you have been completely unimportant; that in the great sum of things all a man's endless grapplings are no more significant than the scuttlings of a cockroach. The universe is neither friendly nor hostile. It is merely indifferent. This makes me ecstatic. I have reached a nirvana of negativity. I can look futility in the face and still see promise in the stars."
"Let's not carry on as if all things end well. They do not end well. Anything that consoles is a fake. I shall continue to lift up my face to the last rays of sunshine...I can allow the arrows to rest gently in my wounds."
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The first half of the book is consistently laugh out loud hilarious, with Wilde-style one-liner observations -- describing being born, Horsley notes "I was so appalled I couldn't talk for two years" -- and I found myself not just amused but impressed by Horsley's wit, candor, and perceptiveness. There is also an interesting element of narrator unreliability for the reader to monitor, as Horsley relishes contradicting himself or common wisdom for amusement and diffusion.
However, there is a point
The first half of the book is consistently laugh out loud hilarious, with Wilde-style one-liner observations -- describing being born, Horsley notes "I was so appalled I couldn't talk for two years" -- and I found myself not just amused but impressed by Horsley's wit, candor, and perceptiveness. There is also an interesting element of narrator unreliability for the reader to monitor, as Horsley relishes contradicting himself or common wisdom for amusement and diffusion.
However, there is a point -- probably when he becomes a rampant drug addict -- where Horsley's inability to let his guard down and get his shit together grows uncomfortable and a bit tiresome. I mostly liked Horsley, so the left part of my brain found it increasingly difficult to accept his lightheartedness as an appropriate response to his decline. No amount of humor detracts me from the suspicion he squandered fortunes and vast intellectual potential to indulge in ephemeral posturing that never soothed his demons, and if he could have just dropped the act, he would have been fine.
Horsley closes with the notion he sacrificed his life to exemplify the world's beauty and triviality: "To be a dandy is to live as a martyr. ... But it has been worth it. To *become* a work of art was the object of my life. ...I answer no social need whatsoever. I am a futile blast of color in a futile colorless world. I regret everything, but so what? At least I have cause." However, the grisly details of Horsley's memoirs read more like a cautionary tale than a call-to-arms, and if it is a benchmark of martyrdom and great art to inspire imitation...the book failed to provide a convincing argument to embrace this lifestyle.
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Carole Morin author of Spying on Strange Men reviews Dandy in the Underworld and Sebastian Horsely's show Whoresley at The Outsiders 8 Greek St Soho London 9th August - 14th September 2013
Sebastian Horsley's autobiography, Dandy in the Underworld, is possibly his suicide note. A hilarious and heartbreaking love letter to himself, his story includes incest, love affairs with prostitutes - one of whom was the main beneficiary of his estate - and a perverse relationship with a notorious murderer wh
Carole Morin author of Spying on Strange Men reviews Dandy in the Underworld and Sebastian Horsely's show Whoresley at The Outsiders 8 Greek St Soho London 9th August - 14th September 2013
Sebastian Horsley's autobiography, Dandy in the Underworld, is possibly his suicide note. A hilarious and heartbreaking love letter to himself, his story includes incest, love affairs with prostitutes - one of whom was the main beneficiary of his estate - and a perverse relationship with a notorious murderer who reinvented himself as an artist after release from 'life' imprisonment.
His autobiography unfolds like a drama and is funny and clever. Despite being a self-confessed narcissist, his book has a coherent structure and has been carefully written.
No one goes to a PV to look at the art, especially when the show is a celebration of decadent artist Sebastian Horsley who was famously crucified for his art with glitter nails at the millennium in the Philippines.
Being nailed to the cross without opiates is a true vocation - or totes bonkers. Either way unsaintly Sebastian's daring act makes Tracey Emin's condom soiled bed seem as risky as Auntie Nellie's on the maid's day off. You can almost hear Sebastian raise his crack pipe and say, 'Blow some gas out of your pompous ass, Trace.'
Given that the dress code to his retrospective, Whoresley at the Outsider's Gallery in Soho, was Dress Dandy; the crowd were a disappointment. Poor Sebastian must have been reclining on his chaise-longue in hell, with a silk mask shielding his eyes from dirty trainers and bodies which could benefit from less beer and more calorie free debauchery.
I wore the Chinese red silk dress I had on when I met the Scarlet Goth who got a slap for touching me inaapropriately to verify the authenticity of the fabric. He begged me to slap him again with my small white hand and blood red fingernails which perhaps reminded him of being crucified. His crucifixion nails are on display at the Outsider's gallery but disappointing clean of blood.
He died in 2010, possibly by his own needle, though Horsley's friends do not believe he committed suicide. He would have left a note. Though Dandy in the Underworld, published a few years before his death, may have been his suicide note. He died the night after the play based on Dandy opened at the Soho Theatre. It's a shame he wasn't cast as himself and too tired from the performance to take the overdose that killed him - by accident or intention.
Horsley had escaped his wealthy family in the neanderthal north for St Martin's Art School and lived in London's Soho for most of his life, with a sign on his front door:
This is not a brothel. There are no prostitutes at this address.
Though Horsley did write a poem which begins, 'I sold my bum in Soho...'
With a life like that who needs art? Yet Sebastian Horsley's paintings are almost good. He could maybe have been a first rate painter with a bit of hard work. But he didn't have time for early nights, his life was his art - the touchingly vulgar suits and hats, the decadent habits that seem charmingly old-fashioned in a world where people exercise and drink water to excess. As Shallow Not Stupid Sebastian said,'My fate lies not in the stars but in a star - myself.'
Death is never far away from glamour for a Soho aesthete. To quote from the Horsley's mouth, 'Soho used to be dirty sex and clean air. Now it's clean sex and bad air.'
I'm sure everyone who has written a review of this memoir has said this already, but...Oscar Wilde lives again. Horsley's writing also reminds me a lot of Mark Twain's. I just started this last night, but I love it already.
Now I have finished the book. Sebastian Horsley is a great writer and totally hilarious, but it was hard to stomach some of his subject matter. Three things that stand out are his descriptions of caking himself in his own excrement, having sex with a VERY VERY OLD prostitute,
I'm sure everyone who has written a review of this memoir has said this already, but...Oscar Wilde lives again. Horsley's writing also reminds me a lot of Mark Twain's. I just started this last night, but I love it already.
Now I have finished the book. Sebastian Horsley is a great writer and totally hilarious, but it was hard to stomach some of his subject matter. Three things that stand out are his descriptions of caking himself in his own excrement, having sex with a VERY VERY OLD prostitute, and being crucified--all of these by choice. I guess I should have expected this since I first heard of Horsley in a Yahoo news tidbit that said he was not permitted to enter the U.S. because of "moral turpitude." His response was that that was odd: "I have never drunk turpentine in my life."
Before, I mentioned Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde--I have to add Salvador Dali also. And this memoir also reminds me of Patty Diphusa by Pedro Almodovar.
I would definitely read another book by Sebastian Horsley.
This book is rather amusingly subtitled an Unauthorized Autobiography. It chronicles some fairly typical hedonistic experiments (in my experience of living in London) of a degenerate middle class Englishman called Sebastian Horley, a guy who loves glittery suits and nail polish but doesn't identify as gay (although he does dabble regularly in man to man sex). Reading it is like taking crack...really addictive and gives you a high. He is so self-deprecating that you can't really call him a preten
This book is rather amusingly subtitled an Unauthorized Autobiography. It chronicles some fairly typical hedonistic experiments (in my experience of living in London) of a degenerate middle class Englishman called Sebastian Horley, a guy who loves glittery suits and nail polish but doesn't identify as gay (although he does dabble regularly in man to man sex). Reading it is like taking crack...really addictive and gives you a high. He is so self-deprecating that you can't really call him a pretentious tosser because he knows full well that he is.
Realising he is totallly useless at having relationships with women he decides to use prostitutes, sometimes up to four times a week. He also uses crack and heroin and tries to be an artist (without success). In a hilarious twist of events, Horley has been barred from entering the US for a book tour, on the grounds of "moral turpitude."
That in itself should make you want to read this book!
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Sebastian Horsley is unique. His memoir will appeal to anyone
with a voueuristic streak and a taste for the bizarre. This wild
man is in his various manifestations consummate dandy, writer,
alcoholic, druggie, thief, and whore chaser. He has packed about six lifetimes worth of action into his 40 odd years. Were this all
there is to the tale, one could easily forego the seedy pleasures
it offers in favor of well written whodunit. But Horsely, for all
his exhibitionistic hubris, is both honest and insig
Sebastian Horsley is unique. His memoir will appeal to anyone
with a voueuristic streak and a taste for the bizarre. This wild
man is in his various manifestations consummate dandy, writer,
alcoholic, druggie, thief, and whore chaser. He has packed about six lifetimes worth of action into his 40 odd years. Were this all
there is to the tale, one could easily forego the seedy pleasures
it offers in favor of well written whodunit. But Horsely, for all
his exhibitionistic hubris, is both honest and insightful, and many
of his achingly funny observations return to haunt you as you
go about your mundane daily affairs. This is a man who has suffered
greatly and not been defeated. His energetic, frantic, usually
excessive efforts to grapple with the challanges of his existence
and the most unusual answers he has given himself are fascinating.
The last time I was in London, I saw an exhibit of some of Horsley's personal affects at the Last Tuesday Society, including the video footage of his crucifixion. Having never before realized that a person could BE crucified in this day and age (and certainly not by choice), I decided I needed to read this book. Sadly, Horsley is so wrapped up in self-loathing that he masks any vulnerability with humor, which really keeps the reader from feeling sympathetic to him. I found myself skimming throug
The last time I was in London, I saw an exhibit of some of Horsley's personal affects at the Last Tuesday Society, including the video footage of his crucifixion. Having never before realized that a person could BE crucified in this day and age (and certainly not by choice), I decided I needed to read this book. Sadly, Horsley is so wrapped up in self-loathing that he masks any vulnerability with humor, which really keeps the reader from feeling sympathetic to him. I found myself skimming through it just to get to the crucifixion, which ultimately was pretty anti-climactic.
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"When mother found out that she was pregnant with me she took an overdose. Father gave her the pills...Had she known I would turn out like this she would have taken cyanide." This is how the story begins and it promises to leave you in stitches in the end. I think I am already left with stitches and I am only in pg13.
Horsley's polished phrases and witticisms are sprinkled here and there, but in between is a slog of a book. I was disappointed, and knowing he died in 2010 from a drug overdose makes all the suicide fetishism all the more creepy.
Sebastian was a genius. He will be read about for years to come. His autobiography is the most honest I have ever read. I was fortunate enough to be a friend of his. I miss him so much.
Sebastian's Horsley's memoir detailing Dandyism, sex, drugs, hookers, women, crack, cock, quims, and art is an intense affair full of quips, gags, aphorisms, and epigrams. By the time you finish reading the book, you begin unintentionally quoting Mr. Horsley on anything from relationship advice to the philosophy of art-- or non-art in Sebastian's case. One of the true last-standing dandies before his recent and unexpected death in June of 2010, life for Sebastian Horsley was a great big canvas,
Sebastian's Horsley's memoir detailing Dandyism, sex, drugs, hookers, women, crack, cock, quims, and art is an intense affair full of quips, gags, aphorisms, and epigrams. By the time you finish reading the book, you begin unintentionally quoting Mr. Horsley on anything from relationship advice to the philosophy of art-- or non-art in Sebastian's case. One of the true last-standing dandies before his recent and unexpected death in June of 2010, life for Sebastian Horsley was a great big canvas, and his primary goal in life was to throw all the paint on it that he could. "Life is only a game-- and everyone loses. So why not just go on gambling anyway, careless of life? Why not try and see if the gods had decided to favor you?"
"Dandy in the Underworld" reads like a manifesto of Oscar Wilde anecdotes-- packed filled with witty one-liners and sarcastic musings. "I could have finished every one of his sentences for him-- I had read all his books. (In speaking of Quentin Crisp) I wish he wasn't dead. He could find lots of his lines in this book." Whether the subject pertains to drugs: "You're not really taking drugs unless you're shooting up. The fixing ritual is the sweetest form of pleasure a man can have." Or hookers: "Where society sees the 'dirty' prostitute as degraded, for me it was the dirt which gave me texture... The whore fuck is the purest fuck of them all." Sebastian Horsley was a true dandy. "Beau" Brummell was the original and most celebrated dandy, however he was much too refined and in all actuality, was a conformist. Sebastian Horsley, on the other hand, was a professional rebel. "True Dandyism is rebellious. The real dandy wants to make people look, be shocked by, and even a little scared by the subversion which his clothes stand for." "Dandyism isn't image encrusted with flourishes. It's a way of stripping yourself down to your true self. You can only judge the style by the content and you can only reach the content through style."
This "tell all" autobiography is a candid kaleidoscope journey through the halls of a colorful peacock: a thing of beauty and a jewel forever. It is certainly disappointing however, that this was the only book that Sebastian was able to write due to his unexpected overdose of a speedball several years after its publication. Ironically, page 276 gives grim details of a near-overdose and what he very possibly felt before his death-- those last few minutes of life itself: "'This will be all right,' was the last thing I remember as the needle emptied. But I knew it wasn't all right. I felt a slow blow to the heart. The room began to blacken around the edges. And then the darkness spread, until my eyes were clouded with a velvety shadow. I could feel them rolling back in my head." However something tells me that somewhere-- wherever that may be-- Sebastian is in good spirits, with a bottle of champagne, smoked salmon, caviar, and a hooker from every imaginable culture. For he writes: "But really death seems the least awful thing that can happen to someone." A publicity stunt? I wouldn't put it past him. "Dying is often the best career move an artist can make. Once you're dead, you are made for life."
Over the years following its publication, reviews for this book have featured words such as 'filth' and 'demented'. However, I beg to differ. "Dandy in the Underworld" is truth in all of its rotten glory. "One is never as happy or as unhappy as one imagines oneself to be. I am happy because I realized the limits of happiness. Happy in the knowledge that there is no real happiness. Contentment consists not in great wealth but in few wants."
"To become a work of art was the object of my life." O, Sebastian. You accomplished that and so much more. Rest in peace, dandelion. I raise a glass of Absinthe to you, hoping to summon you, through me-- all the debauchery and more. In the words of the muse, Baudelaire: We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes/
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves/Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us/Under more beautiful heavens. (La Mort des Amants)
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Goodreads mark 2 stars as 'ok', hence why it only got one. By my internal barometer, it should probably have been two - it wasn't completely unredeemable!
Having said that, I didn't like this book. I found the narrator/author (Sebastian Horsley) a thoroughly unlikeable character. At the end of the book he says (I'm paraphrasing) - 'there comes a time in everybody's life when they realise they love me. Your time has come.' Well, it didn't for me. Apart from this, the graphic drug and sex descripti
Goodreads mark 2 stars as 'ok', hence why it only got one. By my internal barometer, it should probably have been two - it wasn't completely unredeemable!
Having said that, I didn't like this book. I found the narrator/author (Sebastian Horsley) a thoroughly unlikeable character. At the end of the book he says (I'm paraphrasing) - 'there comes a time in everybody's life when they realise they love me. Your time has come.' Well, it didn't for me. Apart from this, the graphic drug and sex descriptions were a bit much for me, though I don't consider myself particularly prudish. I just don't want to read about someone excavating a dried turd from their ass with a spoon (I had to put the book down and do something else for a while after reading that).
On the other hand, Horsley does manage to create images that its difficult to get out of your head (see above!). You could argue this is a sign of a good writer, and that tackling difficult subjects is all part of pushing boundaries, yada yada. It was also not badly written - there were a couple of sections where it seemed Horsley was trying to hard to get in a certain phrase of turn of speech so he could make a joke, but on the whole it flowed well. My main issue was the subject matter. It took me several months to get through this book (I had a long break halfway through, but I try and finish all books I start), but for some people this will probably be right up their alley. It's definitely gritty and 'real'.
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tty turns of phrase to describe very ugly events, memories and thoughts. He is a multi-sexual (bisexual is too limiting), narcissistic drug addict. Some parts are laugh aloud funny not for content but for the style of writing. One reviewer called it “a masterpiece of filth.”
Describing Sid Vicious: “he went to the university of life and graduated with extinction.” Himself: “A solipsist basically mean someone with no friends.” His diet: “Homoeopathies for pathetic homos.” His friend’s father: “He
tty turns of phrase to describe very ugly events, memories and thoughts. He is a multi-sexual (bisexual is too limiting), narcissistic drug addict. Some parts are laugh aloud funny not for content but for the style of writing. One reviewer called it “a masterpiece of filth.”
Describing Sid Vicious: “he went to the university of life and graduated with extinction.” Himself: “A solipsist basically mean someone with no friends.” His diet: “Homoeopathies for pathetic homos.” His friend’s father: “He had an aneurysm and now wanders around the house like a clockwork toy whose spring has gone slack. The wheel was still going around but the gerbil had died.”
“Always make a molehill out of a mountain. Shoot up and shut up. Those are my mottos.”
“Self pity is the most destructive of all narcotics.”
Whether alone in his studio smearing himself in his own excrement, shooting up heroin and cocaine or visiting a prostitute in Soho before dinner at the Ritz, the details of his expensive bohemian life are told with honesty and humour.
He went to the Philippines so he could make a movie of his crucifixion in the Easter celebrations.
Horsely died in 2010 from a drug overdose.
A great read but definitely not for the weak of heart.
- Have I failed you as a mother, Sylvester?
- It's Sebastian, Mother.
Do you remember that 80s movie – Sid and Nancy? Watching it is a bitter-sweet experience. You try to sympathize with the characters and you do for a fragment of a second there until they do the most shockingly repulsive thing, far beyond anyone’s expectation, leaving you all confused and in disgust. Well, “Dandy in the Underworld” puts you through a similar whirlpool of emotions.
As far as the style of writing is concerned, most
- Have I failed you as a mother, Sylvester?
- It's Sebastian, Mother.
Do you remember that 80s movie – Sid and Nancy? Watching it is a bitter-sweet experience. You try to sympathize with the characters and you do for a fragment of a second there until they do the most shockingly repulsive thing, far beyond anyone’s expectation, leaving you all confused and in disgust. Well, “Dandy in the Underworld” puts you through a similar whirlpool of emotions.
As far as the style of writing is concerned, most of the book consists of aphoristic expressions in the manner of Oscar Wilde - sharp, controversial, entertaining and some of which stolen. Furthermore, Sebastian Horsley designed a similar end for himself to the ending of Dorian from “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. After all a dandy does not enjoy art, he lives it.
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http://slpssm.blogspot.com/2012/12/da...
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Dandy In the Underworld was written with the same frantic precision with which Sebastian Horsley lived his life. Full of excess, abuse, disgust, self-loathing, self-love and everything in between, it is hard to say if the life that unfolds in its pages is one to envy or pity. For all his posturing and proclamations Sebastian Horsely reveals himself to be a man just as unsure as the rest of us about what life has to offer but trying very hard to make sure that he doesn't find out. The shocking ta
Dandy In the Underworld was written with the same frantic precision with which Sebastian Horsley lived his life. Full of excess, abuse, disgust, self-loathing, self-love and everything in between, it is hard to say if the life that unfolds in its pages is one to envy or pity. For all his posturing and proclamations Sebastian Horsely reveals himself to be a man just as unsure as the rest of us about what life has to offer but trying very hard to make sure that he doesn't find out. The shocking tale's chronology is not always linear and can often venture into a hyperenergetic spew of experiences some of us can't even begin to imagine. As a whole it is a spectacular piece of work marketed in a very self-depricating manner--much the reverse of the author's conduct.
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Another book I found via NPR. I heard an interview with this guy and wished he lived in my town so we could be BFFs.
He talked about how he remembered his mother from his childhood and he said that once she was getting ready to go out, putting on make up, fixing her hair, dressing. As she got ready to leave she said to the nanny (in her regal British accent), "Go get one of my children to go with me."
"Which child, ma'am?"
"Well I DON'T KNOW. Whichever one goes with red velvet!"
OMG! LOOOOVE HER!
Another book I found via NPR. I heard an interview with this guy and wished he lived in my town so we could be BFFs.
He talked about how he remembered his mother from his childhood and he said that once she was getting ready to go out, putting on make up, fixing her hair, dressing. As she got ready to leave she said to the nanny (in her regal British accent), "Go get one of my children to go with me."
"Which child, ma'am?"
"Well I DON'T KNOW. Whichever one goes with red velvet!"
OMG! LOOOOVE HER! /Jon Stewart sing-song voice
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While the book had some interesting anecdotes, but about half-way through it started getting bogged down with wanna-be connections that maybe I would know if I were British. Or maybe not.
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In the beginning it was so hilariously wrong. I even laughed aloud. However, it starts to grate around page 200.
I finally finished this. Horsely is great with the one-liners, too bad he was a misogynist and a shell of a person. I really had to force myself to get through the last 100 pages or so. He had a grossly distorted egocentricity coupled with a lack of empathy which screamed sociopath. Despite some clever cruel razor edged zingers, the fact remains, he was and is one of the greatest exam
In the beginning it was so hilariously wrong. I even laughed aloud. However, it starts to grate around page 200.
I finally finished this. Horsely is great with the one-liners, too bad he was a misogynist and a shell of a person. I really had to force myself to get through the last 100 pages or so. He had a grossly distorted egocentricity coupled with a lack of empathy which screamed sociopath. Despite some clever cruel razor edged zingers, the fact remains, he was and is one of the greatest examples in recent memory of self indulgent drug addict, and considering his bipolar-like musings on life, death and suicide, it's almost a relief that he *is* dead (of a drug overdose of course).
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Now this is a hard one to review....a disturbing read, but that was to be expected... All i can think of is if that book had been 2/3 of its final length, i think i would have loved it, albeit in a twisted way, but it dragged on towards the end and as such, made me dislike the character more and more (not that i think that it was Mr Horsley's intent to get the reader to like him anyway, even though the last page suggests we should). It is the kind of book that you can't really put down because y
Now this is a hard one to review....a disturbing read, but that was to be expected... All i can think of is if that book had been 2/3 of its final length, i think i would have loved it, albeit in a twisted way, but it dragged on towards the end and as such, made me dislike the character more and more (not that i think that it was Mr Horsley's intent to get the reader to like him anyway, even though the last page suggests we should). It is the kind of book that you can't really put down because you want to know what happens to him, but you're kind of glad when it ends. Not recommended for the depressed and/or recovering addicts.
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I wanted to like this book. Sebastian Horsley seems like an interesting guy, and has a story to tell. Unfortunately, it is how it is told that is the problem. He seems to have a self-conscious "I am writing" style, which is a style that I don't particularly like, and what's more, he seems to have a lot of sound bites that sound good (which contributes to the "I am writing" style) that made this book unreadable. It would be great if he could get past that and just write.
A good substitute for thi
I wanted to like this book. Sebastian Horsley seems like an interesting guy, and has a story to tell. Unfortunately, it is how it is told that is the problem. He seems to have a self-conscious "I am writing" style, which is a style that I don't particularly like, and what's more, he seems to have a lot of sound bites that sound good (which contributes to the "I am writing" style) that made this book unreadable. It would be great if he could get past that and just write.
A good substitute for this is "Running with Scissors" by Augusten Burroughs.
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Nope. Not my kind of thing at all. Somebody or other recommended it to me, but....no. Autobiography of a seriously screwed-up person. I do tend to find all biogs and autobiogs lose steam after the childhood part, for me anyhow; this one has a sort of offhand panache to its dreadfulness, and the author does have a rather, well, sweet style, but it’s still a recital of a great deal of painful unpleasantness and I only have so many years left to me. Not going to waste any more time and psychic ener
Nope. Not my kind of thing at all. Somebody or other recommended it to me, but....no. Autobiography of a seriously screwed-up person. I do tend to find all biogs and autobiogs lose steam after the childhood part, for me anyhow; this one has a sort of offhand panache to its dreadfulness, and the author does have a rather, well, sweet style, but it’s still a recital of a great deal of painful unpleasantness and I only have so many years left to me. Not going to waste any more time and psychic energy on this one, quit about 80 pages in.
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I adored this book back when I read it, from the library no less! In 2008. I literally laughed out loud every few pages or so. This bloke is truly witty. One of the best anecdotes is about his annoyingly bland grandmother, who couldn't be bothered to say a bad word about anyone, even Hitler! Her appraisal of Adolf - "He was the best in his field." And what field would that be??? Megalomaniac? War mongerer? Again, LOL! Please read this insanely funny book. You'll nearly piss yourself laughing.
Recommends it for:
people who liked James St. James' Disco Bloodbath
The early 21st century addiction memoir to end all early 21st century addiction memoirs. Loved all the ridiculous asides about Nick Cave. Drags in parts -- but what can you expect from someone who spent decades as an addict? Overall, completely wonderful, but not for everyone. Suggested for people with a strong stomach. And a strong sense of humor.
In the end, Horsley's capacity for astute self-examination saves the day. Of course you adore him in the end, how could you not?
Sebastian Horsley was a London artist best known for having undergone a voluntary crucifixion. Horsley's writings often revolve around his dysfunctional family, his drug addictions, sex, and his reliance on prostitutes. He died of a heroin overdose.