I, Lucifer, by Glen Duncan (2002) E

Date read: 2.15.09
Book from: University library
Reviewer: Emera

Too lazy to summarize, so, back-of-the-book summary: “The Prince of Darkness has been given one last shot at redemption, provided he can live out a reasonably blameless life on earth. Highly skeptical, naturally, the Old Dealmaker negotiates a trial period – a summer holiday in a human body, with all the delights of the flesh. The body, however, turns out to be that of Declan Gunn, a depressed writer interrupted in his bath mid-suicide. Ever the opportunist, and with his main scheme bubbling in the background, Luce takes the chance to tap out a few thoughts – to straighten the Biblical record, to celebrate his favourite achievements, to let us know just what it’s like being him.”

Daniel Craig is going to play Lucifer in a movie version of this soon, so I decided that I’d try it out, especially since a friend had mentioned liking the book about when it first came out. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make myself get through it, and decided after about 50 pages that it was a waste of time, making it a rare aborted reading attempt.

I found Duncan’s voice – or Lucifer’s, I can’t tell the difference between the two – both preposterous and obnoxious. I’ve read many an unsympathetic narrator with much sympathy before, but this was just tiresome. The problem is not so much that the content is vulgar, as it is that the writing is even more so. Duncan practically herniates himself trying to show just how flippant, blasphemous, self-absorbed, grossly sexual, etc. etc. Lucifer is, to the extent that the whole thing backfires on him and robs this Lucifer of any potential sympathy that we might be inclined to accord him in his lighter moments. We’re meant to feel a sympathetic sensuality, even joy, when, for example, Lucifer takes his first physical breath of air in a scented garden, but Lucifer’s personality is so absurdly overblown and overwritten that he obviates anything else that might try to share the same page as him, whether it be gardens, sensual pleasure, or a reader just trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

This is a sloppy, smirking, adolescent mess. If you like listening to irredeemably obnoxious individuals grandstand and talk about themselves, go for it.

Go to:
Glen Duncan