“The Romantic Egoist” by Frédéric Beigbeder—according to his own words—is “Lego of Ego”: under the mask of the hero, the author alternately confesses himself, then lets a fictional writer—sated with fame—talk back to himself. Clubs where Parisian literary bohemia flirts, beaches and discos at fashionable resorts, “hot districts,” and prestigious hotels, society and artistic life of the biggest megacities—including Moscow—details from the puzzle flash mixed with witty assessments of our era and its heroes against the faint awareness of an approaching collapse.
The author turns to the diary genre, thereby sort of excluding any particular plot in advance. The book is full of an insane number of “famous” people whom the average Russian reader doesn’t know (I have a suspicion that even a Frenchman doesn’t either—God willing, only a third). That’s why there are over a hundred explanation footnotes for such a small book—you get slightly tired of it. But as you push through these clusters of bohemians, you constantly come across the author’s statements that feel so close to you, yet you weren’t able to put them into words before. That’s what draws you to Beigbeder’s work.