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Toby Young’s memoir of a Briton failing to climb the social ladder of the NYC “glossy posse” is full of great pie-faced hi jinks. For a book brimming with humor and ironic witticism, the book makes a pretty poignant, pointed statement of American social structure and the inaccessibility of the “American Dream”.
The tale spun here is a pretty much the typical thread of woe and failure we hear so much of these days. The narrator spends the bulk of his time in self-debasing ridicule, thereby lending some perverse measure of (self-imposed) credence to its author when he throws his wrench of rebuke into the gears of the American social machine: We are all just post-modern versions of Melville’s Ishmael. Outcasts, trodden, huddled masses. You get the picture.
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