Dandy in the Underworld: An Unauthorised Autobiography – Sebastian Horsley
Dandy in the Underworld: An Unauthorised Autobiography – Sebastian Horsley
Sebastian Horsley is a dandy and artist manqué who was briefly famous a few years ago for getting himself crucified in the Philippines. “I’ve suffered for my art,†he forewarns us, “now it’s your turn.†A sexual and intellectual pessimist who lives “poised between Savile Row and Death Rowâ€, or, more prosaically, between narcissism and boredom, he isn’t easy to comprehend. Maybe it has to do with seeing too much too young…
RIP Sebastian x
No one can say you didn’t do it your way.
‘Ill go to your funeral if you come to mine’ -SB
…then it got dull, repetetive and annoying. Author is too self conscious and is often plain offensive in a decidedly unfunny way. Not to mention the fact that he is a total loser and that there is no point to the memoir and no message to carry away from it.
Rating: 2 / 5
Well, the title of this review says it all, really.
Sebastian Horsley pontificates about his misbehaviour and drug abuse, philandering, snobbery, and buying sex like it is going out of style.
Unfortunately, the majority of the book is stolen from others: Marc Bolan (the title and much else…), Quentin Crisp, even Oscar Wilde is honoured with the flattery of imitation.
Couldn’t get to the end, or, in fact, the middle…
Rating: 2 / 5
What a waste – of his life and my money. Luckily I only bought a second-hand paperback copy which is in the pile of books on the floor waiting to go to a charity shop. At least that way his life may help someone less fortunate.
Rating: 1 / 5
Please don’t bother reading this book. Contrary to what others have said, Mr Horsley has not had a very interesting life. He dwells on his drug addiction and relationship with an ex-con (yawn) whilst neglecting the more interesting characters such as his father and grandfather. All of this might be forgivable if he had any talent as a writer. Unfortunately he does not.
Rating: 1 / 5
Few books seem to have sent readers flying to extremes as this one. Horsely’s marmite persona is certainly going to divide opinion, but I frankly think that the reaction to this book is quite silly. I’ve read things that are more shocking and less shocking, and the prose style is wedged firmly in the middle of the universal scale of aptitude. To be blunt: It’s ok. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.
I can already feel Horsley searching around for the lace glove with which to slap my blasphemous face. That this is a man who wishes to be loved or hated is quite obvious from the contrived attempts to rile the reader that are scattered throughout. He wants to shock. He wants reaction. Sadly, I can’t give that to him: he’s interesting, certainly, and this is better than a great deal of biographies you can invest in; although in an era where any wealthy heiress and her dog can get their life story published for doing absolutely sod all, that’s not saying much.
One of the things I enjoyed was Horsley’s justification for his lack of morality and social conscience: at the novel’s conclusion he’s practically philisophical. I like the way he appreciates the worthlessness of his own existence. I like the fact that he steals excessively from his icons: if you criticise him for plagiarism, you’re not seeing the joke.
Those are the things I enjoyed. Now for the things I disliked.
Firstly, Horsley, as a narrator is… well… really, really annoying. Yes, his self-absorption can be amusing; yes, his narcissism can be charming… but after about a hundred or so pages, it all gets a little wearing.
Horsley is at his most engaging when you catch glimpses of the frustrated and terminally neglected little boy from which he grew. However, after a rushed look at his early years, these moments are few.
But then again, this could be part of the joke. Horsley prides himself on being nine-tenths style, with the final 10% of substance being firmly submerged. I could spend hours musing on what he intends ironically and when he’s trying to get a joke at the reader’s expense: the latter might well be the whole point of the book.
But, yeah. The book’s alright. If you want something that’s a little more focussed on the drugs/depravity side of things, read the first two-thirds of Anthony Kiedis’ ‘Scar Tissue.’ Given that a brief dip into the ‘dark side’ is the only reason to buy this book, perhaps your money might be better spent on people who describe their experiences a little less irritatingly, with their head a little less firmly jammed up their own…
Rating: 3 / 5