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On the Edge
Peter, a disaffected merchant banker in his mid-thirties, suffers a coup de foudre when he lays eyes on the delectable Sabine, and sets out on a reckless mission to track her down. His search takes him to some of the outposts of New Age culture, and there he finds something he wasn't looking for.
234 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
42 people are currently reading
1040 people want to read
About the author
Edward St. Aubyn
20 books1,196 followersEdward St Aubyn was born in London in 1960. He was educated at Westminster school and Keble college, Oxford University. He is the author of six novels, the most recent of which, ‘Mother’s Milk’, was shortlisted for the 2006 Man Booker Prize, won the 2007 Prix Femina Etranger and won the 2007 South Bank Show award on literature.
His first novel, ‘Never Mind’ (1992) won the Betty Trask award. This novel, along with ‘Bad News’ (1992) and ‘Some Hope’ (1994) became a trilogy, now collectively published under the title ‘Some Hope’.
His other fiction consists of ‘On the Edge’ (1998) which was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize and A Clue to the Exit (2000).
His first novel, ‘Never Mind’ (1992) won the Betty Trask award. This novel, along with ‘Bad News’ (1992) and ‘Some Hope’ (1994) became a trilogy, now collectively published under the title ‘Some Hope’.
His other fiction consists of ‘On the Edge’ (1998) which was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize and A Clue to the Exit (2000).
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 82 reviews
April 11, 2015
This was dreadful. It's one of the worst books I've finished in a long time because I don't usually finish books once I decide I don't like them, but for some insane reason I decided to stick this one out and the wisdom of my usual policy has been affirmed. I guess I kept waiting for it to get better but it just got worse until its climax (harhar), which was (spoiler alert) all the characters split into couples and having graphically described sex for page after gooey gross boring dumb page. Blech!
As far as I'm concerned there are just two reasons why someone should read this book. One, you quite reasonably loved the brilliant Patrick Melrose novels and are the type of fan who needs to run out and get all the rereleased albums the band you love ever recorded, even their crap early stuff where they sounded like the poor man's Enya. The other reason to read this book would be if you once spent a substantial amount of time on some kind of New Age-y vision quest, roaming around through ashrams and waving crystals and talking about chakras and past lives and being generally pretty terrible. If you've mainly come to your senses and given up that way of life but still see some value in it, I would say you're the target audience for this book. I am not.
So at first glance, On the Edge seems to be going after some pathetically low-hanging fruit: the New Age movement, specifically a large cast of characters and caricatures gathered at the Esalen Institute for a weekend of human potential workshops culminating in a Tantric Sex course. However, it becomes clear quickly that in fact this book really isn't a satire. While it pokes fun at aspects of New Agers and mocks tendencies you tend to see cropping up in these circles, actually On the Edge is a fairly serious examination of these New Age experiences and ideas -- it's that movie What the Bleep do we Know if that movie were a St. Aubyn novel instead of a film. I suppose it's theoretically possible that someone could write about this stuff in a way that'd make it interesting to me, but it's hard to imagine what that would look like and this book wasn't it. As someone who involuntarily spent a lot of time around these types as a California child in the eighties with a parent who was VERY into an ashram, this all felt very familiar but not in a good way. In a word, this book was about something I'm not interested in, and on top of that, it was dull.
So okay, Jessica, why did you buy this book when the back cover clearly states it's about the New Age movement, which is something you've just said does not interest you?
Well, I didn't read the back cover (I generally try not to); I just read the first paragraph, which is pretty fucking awesome:
Adam arrived at Brooke's San Francisco mansion wearing the flame-colored Nehru jacket Yves had brought back for him from Paris. Most people couldn't get away with a Nehru jacket, but Adam, in whose veins the lava of India and the phlegm of England combined with an intoxicating hiss, wore his new clothes with indiscreet self-assurance. Adam was on fire with the truth about the future of the human race and it was not a fire he intended to keep to himself.
Brilliant!!! Unfortunately, St. Aubyn seemed to exhaust himself with that opening (and with the concept of our power couple Adam and Yves) and the book just completely devolves from there. Its nadir for me was a chapter that was almost entirely the Adam character giving a speech to a room of New Age seekers, a speech that carried none of the linguistic panache of that first paragraph and wasn't funny or interesting in the least. That's what happened with this book: it wasn't really funny, more just an exploration of New Age ideas that don't interest me but that I might be able to summon up some wan patience for if I somehow found myself stuck on an all-expenses paid trip to Big Sur and were plied with hot tubs and tantric sexcapades...? Alas, no. It wasn't enough to hold up the novel, especially when the characters pretty much sucked (I noted same problem as in Lost for Words, of a real nothingburger romantic male lead with all the personality of a plate of unseasoned tofu).
If you want to read something hilarious and devastating about the New Age moment with a lot of gross sex in it, you can doubtless find a book where Michel Houellebecq does it better. If it's spectacular British prose you're after, there is some of that mixed in here but I'd say you're better off sticking with the Patrick Melrose cycle, which has an infinitely higher return.
As far as I'm concerned there are just two reasons why someone should read this book. One, you quite reasonably loved the brilliant Patrick Melrose novels and are the type of fan who needs to run out and get all the rereleased albums the band you love ever recorded, even their crap early stuff where they sounded like the poor man's Enya. The other reason to read this book would be if you once spent a substantial amount of time on some kind of New Age-y vision quest, roaming around through ashrams and waving crystals and talking about chakras and past lives and being generally pretty terrible. If you've mainly come to your senses and given up that way of life but still see some value in it, I would say you're the target audience for this book. I am not.
So at first glance, On the Edge seems to be going after some pathetically low-hanging fruit: the New Age movement, specifically a large cast of characters and caricatures gathered at the Esalen Institute for a weekend of human potential workshops culminating in a Tantric Sex course. However, it becomes clear quickly that in fact this book really isn't a satire. While it pokes fun at aspects of New Agers and mocks tendencies you tend to see cropping up in these circles, actually On the Edge is a fairly serious examination of these New Age experiences and ideas -- it's that movie What the Bleep do we Know if that movie were a St. Aubyn novel instead of a film. I suppose it's theoretically possible that someone could write about this stuff in a way that'd make it interesting to me, but it's hard to imagine what that would look like and this book wasn't it. As someone who involuntarily spent a lot of time around these types as a California child in the eighties with a parent who was VERY into an ashram, this all felt very familiar but not in a good way. In a word, this book was about something I'm not interested in, and on top of that, it was dull.
So okay, Jessica, why did you buy this book when the back cover clearly states it's about the New Age movement, which is something you've just said does not interest you?
Well, I didn't read the back cover (I generally try not to); I just read the first paragraph, which is pretty fucking awesome:
Adam arrived at Brooke's San Francisco mansion wearing the flame-colored Nehru jacket Yves had brought back for him from Paris. Most people couldn't get away with a Nehru jacket, but Adam, in whose veins the lava of India and the phlegm of England combined with an intoxicating hiss, wore his new clothes with indiscreet self-assurance. Adam was on fire with the truth about the future of the human race and it was not a fire he intended to keep to himself.
Brilliant!!! Unfortunately, St. Aubyn seemed to exhaust himself with that opening (and with the concept of our power couple Adam and Yves) and the book just completely devolves from there. Its nadir for me was a chapter that was almost entirely the Adam character giving a speech to a room of New Age seekers, a speech that carried none of the linguistic panache of that first paragraph and wasn't funny or interesting in the least. That's what happened with this book: it wasn't really funny, more just an exploration of New Age ideas that don't interest me but that I might be able to summon up some wan patience for if I somehow found myself stuck on an all-expenses paid trip to Big Sur and were plied with hot tubs and tantric sexcapades...? Alas, no. It wasn't enough to hold up the novel, especially when the characters pretty much sucked (I noted same problem as in Lost for Words, of a real nothingburger romantic male lead with all the personality of a plate of unseasoned tofu).
If you want to read something hilarious and devastating about the New Age moment with a lot of gross sex in it, you can doubtless find a book where Michel Houellebecq does it better. If it's spectacular British prose you're after, there is some of that mixed in here but I'd say you're better off sticking with the Patrick Melrose cycle, which has an infinitely higher return.
October 21, 2014
The worst of St. Aubyn. It is one thing to give your characters out-of-body experiences, but quite another to neglect to give your characters bodies. About as scintillating as being trapped in a room with an undergrad on acid. Don't bother to soldier on to the tantric climax. Do bother to read St. Aubyn's outstanding Patrick Melrose series.
January 27, 2015
For the first 200+ pages this was the smartest, funniest semi-satire on the New Age movement I have ever read; then something weird happened: the satire gets completely swallowed up in an earnest, slightly queasy celebration of the splendors of spiritual sex. In the light of this triumphant finale, the books seems suspiciously like an extended advert for Esalen (where most of the action takes place).
There's nothing obviously wrong with the last passages, it's just that I wasn't convinced by them, and that they take the air out of the book's satirical sales: after having such fun with the mercurial, borderline farcical nature of spiritual seeking, St Aubyn appears to want us to believe he found the answer in ~ the very place all of us are hoping it will be found ~ a good fuck. Not that this is a faulty premise (I imagine it's the most likely place a biological organism *will* find the answer); it's just that, as I say, I wasn't convinced. It read like wishful writing to me.
There's nothing obviously wrong with the last passages, it's just that I wasn't convinced by them, and that they take the air out of the book's satirical sales: after having such fun with the mercurial, borderline farcical nature of spiritual seeking, St Aubyn appears to want us to believe he found the answer in ~ the very place all of us are hoping it will be found ~ a good fuck. Not that this is a faulty premise (I imagine it's the most likely place a biological organism *will* find the answer); it's just that, as I say, I wasn't convinced. It read like wishful writing to me.
January 6, 2015
Not in the same league as his Patrick Melrose novels, but better than Lost for Words, which was light to the point of vapor (at least for me). Again, St. Aubyn's incredible gift for perspective shows up here, with shift POV in many scenes so deftly handled there wasn't a moment of confusion. I could have done without yet another drug hallucination scene (when I am king, these will be first against the literary wall), but otherwise, recommended.
August 11, 2015
The author has difficulty getting to his point in the novel. That’s what bothered me in this otherwise intelligent and humorous exploration of the New Age movement.
A bunch of westerners, men and women, with relationship, sex, and career issues are converging on a retreat in California that instructs participants on Tantric sex. They are mainly British and American, with the odd Frenchman thrown in. Let’s see, there is Peter chasing a mysterious woman named Sabine with whom he had a three-day affair; Brooke, a philanthropist, who funded the novelistic efforts of her love interest, Kenneth, who in turn has squandered his time and money; Harley and musician Jason, a quarreling young couple; Adam, a New Age philosopher and his gay partner Yves; impotent Stan and Karen, an older couple looking to re-ignite their love life without Viagra; Sabine (yes, she actually appears) and her new squeeze, Jerome, who are looking for threesomes or even foursomes in the sack; and flower child Crystal, the woman that Peter is supposed to ultimately meet through his wayward peregrinations and through the mysterious workings of the universe.
The book suffers because the fundamental elements of novel craft are ignored, reminding me that even the most brilliant writer (and there is no doubt that St. Aubyn is brilliant) needs to follow some conventions lest he leave his reader floundering and missing the best points that he is trying to make. There are too any characters, rendering many of them into caricatures, too many points of view, too much telling, too much philosophizing, and the story line is severely short changed. On the other hand there are brilliant descriptions of Los Angeles, of trips in the desert on psychedelic drugs, and of Tantric sex. There are lengthy discourses on Rumi and philosophy, but we get the impression that the novel is being blatantly used as a platform by the author to get his philosophical arguments across in not so subtle ways. Brilliant lines get tossed off, such as, “TV is the sewer pipe of society,” and “ Avoid the void,” making one not want to toss this maddeningly erratic book into the bin.
After many digressions into side events that have no bearing on the central story line, and much drifting through everyone’s head and philosophy, the action centres on each couple getting into the “act”, each in their own way. The detritus of modern society interferes in their tantric couplings, namely the fantasizing by the men while they are in the sex act, thanks to porn, infidelity and other stimulants that men hang onto in order to get it off. And for the more liberated women like Sabine, the hunt for more than one man to please her in bed becomes a challenge in this commune, as everyone is thoroughly enjoying themselves with their chosen mate. But in the end, persistence pays off, and the New Age retreat is rocked with a series of orgasms, confirming that all is still well in the world.
I’d just read the last chapter if you want to get to the gist of what is going on, everything else is optional, like clothes at a nudist camp.
A bunch of westerners, men and women, with relationship, sex, and career issues are converging on a retreat in California that instructs participants on Tantric sex. They are mainly British and American, with the odd Frenchman thrown in. Let’s see, there is Peter chasing a mysterious woman named Sabine with whom he had a three-day affair; Brooke, a philanthropist, who funded the novelistic efforts of her love interest, Kenneth, who in turn has squandered his time and money; Harley and musician Jason, a quarreling young couple; Adam, a New Age philosopher and his gay partner Yves; impotent Stan and Karen, an older couple looking to re-ignite their love life without Viagra; Sabine (yes, she actually appears) and her new squeeze, Jerome, who are looking for threesomes or even foursomes in the sack; and flower child Crystal, the woman that Peter is supposed to ultimately meet through his wayward peregrinations and through the mysterious workings of the universe.
The book suffers because the fundamental elements of novel craft are ignored, reminding me that even the most brilliant writer (and there is no doubt that St. Aubyn is brilliant) needs to follow some conventions lest he leave his reader floundering and missing the best points that he is trying to make. There are too any characters, rendering many of them into caricatures, too many points of view, too much telling, too much philosophizing, and the story line is severely short changed. On the other hand there are brilliant descriptions of Los Angeles, of trips in the desert on psychedelic drugs, and of Tantric sex. There are lengthy discourses on Rumi and philosophy, but we get the impression that the novel is being blatantly used as a platform by the author to get his philosophical arguments across in not so subtle ways. Brilliant lines get tossed off, such as, “TV is the sewer pipe of society,” and “ Avoid the void,” making one not want to toss this maddeningly erratic book into the bin.
After many digressions into side events that have no bearing on the central story line, and much drifting through everyone’s head and philosophy, the action centres on each couple getting into the “act”, each in their own way. The detritus of modern society interferes in their tantric couplings, namely the fantasizing by the men while they are in the sex act, thanks to porn, infidelity and other stimulants that men hang onto in order to get it off. And for the more liberated women like Sabine, the hunt for more than one man to please her in bed becomes a challenge in this commune, as everyone is thoroughly enjoying themselves with their chosen mate. But in the end, persistence pays off, and the New Age retreat is rocked with a series of orgasms, confirming that all is still well in the world.
I’d just read the last chapter if you want to get to the gist of what is going on, everything else is optional, like clothes at a nudist camp.
January 10, 2008
This is an odd - and to my mind largely unsuccessful - book. It describes the adventures of a group of people who would probably term themselves spiritual seekers as they drift from one feelgood farm to another, from Findhorn to Esalen, from tantric sex to psychedelic release. The book is full of detail; praised by one reviewer for the depth and breadth of its research, it seems to me though to be over-researched. Page after page is devoted to the kind of irony-free information about basically cranky new age theory that wouldn't be out of place in a self-help bestseller, but sits oddly in a book that also appears to have a satirical purpose. (You can read the rest of the review at my blog)
October 1, 2023
Quite a disappointment after his other books. The great majority of the narrative is the internal cogitations of overprivileged aristocrats, often on drugs, often solely motivated by improving the quality of their sexual experiences through various types of therapy and meditation projects.
October 22, 2023
I’ve devoured the 50 first pages (drug trip); than I got quite bored for 200 pages and enjoyed the 50 last ones (the tantric sex).
All characters are pretty fucked up in my opinion, self absorbed, and their new age journeys seem pretty fake under the powerful author’s irony and sarcasms.
I laughed a lot to be honest.
I laughed at them with the narrator.
I’ve recognized in all of them some of the people I’ve met when I myself indulged in new age drugs ceremonies while living in London.
To read if you never read any good description of a drug trip !
This moment is honestly beautiful written and extremely funny.
“ ‘Oh, la vache’, he gasped.
He had to take a break, the images were too strong. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Fluorescent dodecahedrons whistled past him in a thick meteor shower which was clearly about to smash apart the spaceship of his identity. Even geometry was out to get him, even Euclid could not cool the fever of his unhappiness. He opened his eyes again and burst into flame.
‘Oh, fuck.’
Should he tell Crystal that he'd burst into flame? What was the etiquette of insanity? How could he ask her to save him when he had no idea who she was? He knew something about her back there in the other world, but now that he was on Pluto having his teeth examined by Dr Mengele, while the laws of physics were being redefined several times a second, whatever he had thought he knew meant absolutely nothing.
'Where are we?' asked Crystal with a breathtaking mastery of language. 'It all looks the same.'
'Whuh,' he managed, dragging the water bottle out of his backpack. Being on fire was thirsty work.”
All characters are pretty fucked up in my opinion, self absorbed, and their new age journeys seem pretty fake under the powerful author’s irony and sarcasms.
I laughed a lot to be honest.
I laughed at them with the narrator.
I’ve recognized in all of them some of the people I’ve met when I myself indulged in new age drugs ceremonies while living in London.
To read if you never read any good description of a drug trip !
This moment is honestly beautiful written and extremely funny.
“ ‘Oh, la vache’, he gasped.
He had to take a break, the images were too strong. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Fluorescent dodecahedrons whistled past him in a thick meteor shower which was clearly about to smash apart the spaceship of his identity. Even geometry was out to get him, even Euclid could not cool the fever of his unhappiness. He opened his eyes again and burst into flame.
‘Oh, fuck.’
Should he tell Crystal that he'd burst into flame? What was the etiquette of insanity? How could he ask her to save him when he had no idea who she was? He knew something about her back there in the other world, but now that he was on Pluto having his teeth examined by Dr Mengele, while the laws of physics were being redefined several times a second, whatever he had thought he knew meant absolutely nothing.
'Where are we?' asked Crystal with a breathtaking mastery of language. 'It all looks the same.'
'Whuh,' he managed, dragging the water bottle out of his backpack. Being on fire was thirsty work.”
April 5, 2015
This book could have been so much better, but it really didn't pick up until Chapter 8. It was a constant back and forth up until Chapter 8, which made it hard to hold my concentration up until them. However, from Chapter 8 on, I felt like I could finally follow along with each character's narratives. It was an interesting view on the New-Age movement, one that held a slightly sarcastic tone on those fully indulged in that lifestyle. Overall, I don't know if I'd recommend this book to anyone just because it took a good amount of time to really get into, but to my more adventurous friends, I'd say go for it.
September 26, 2023
His weakest, which is still pretty good. A practice run for the glorious Mother's Milk, same themes and many of the same vocal tics.
I was disappointed to find him being sympathetic and fair to my ideological enemies, the mystic anti-rationalists. Shout out to Findhorn too!
I was disappointed to find him being sympathetic and fair to my ideological enemies, the mystic anti-rationalists. Shout out to Findhorn too!
February 4, 2016
A bit difficult to read just as it is difficult listening to someone go on and on about new age enlightenment.... Funny at times as St. Aubyn pokes fun at the whole movement.
January 14, 2023
The first standalone novel by St. Aubyn takes him in a somewhat new direction. The Melrose stories (the first 3 were published before this novel came out) had always been as much about Patrick as they are about his family - Patrick is defined by his family and his upbringing.
Peter Thorpe is not Patrick Melrose and we hear almost nothing about his family. But his upbringing and his job replaces that family connection, allowing St. Aubyn to use a lot of the same mechanisms in a new way.
On the surface, the story looks almost trivial - a banker goes to a conference, meets a woman and decides to throw his career away to go chase after her and her beliefs. It is not a romance novel and it is not a tragedy and it could it slipped into either of those. Instead the novel is a sharp satire of all things New Age - from the people who lose all their money to gurus to the gurus themselves, from the constant swindling to the broken hopes. I suspect that for some people a lot of the humor may be offensive - St. Aubyn does not pull back and tends to be abrasive occasionally.
One thing that takes awhile to get used to is the lack of depth in a lot of the characters. They don't need the depth - a lot of them are supposed to represent a type and not a specific person - and that is very different from the Melrose novels. But once that part clicks properly, the novel can be hilarious in places and the ends fits perfectly. Add some great writing and I had a few very enjoyable hours with the characters in this novel.
St. Aubyn will return to the New Age topic with Eleanor's story in the Melrose novels. As I read them before this novel, I wonder if this one was not written as a preparation to the much more personal Melrose novel - we don't see the same people but a lot of the same ideas are there, now tied to people who are a lot more familiar to the reader and a lot better realized as characters.
I am not sure I would have liked this novel as much as I did if I had started with it. As different as it is from the Melrose trilogy, it shines in the comparison more than on its own - it almost reads like a companion piece even if it is not connected. Which can be a problem sometimes.
Peter Thorpe is not Patrick Melrose and we hear almost nothing about his family. But his upbringing and his job replaces that family connection, allowing St. Aubyn to use a lot of the same mechanisms in a new way.
On the surface, the story looks almost trivial - a banker goes to a conference, meets a woman and decides to throw his career away to go chase after her and her beliefs. It is not a romance novel and it is not a tragedy and it could it slipped into either of those. Instead the novel is a sharp satire of all things New Age - from the people who lose all their money to gurus to the gurus themselves, from the constant swindling to the broken hopes. I suspect that for some people a lot of the humor may be offensive - St. Aubyn does not pull back and tends to be abrasive occasionally.
One thing that takes awhile to get used to is the lack of depth in a lot of the characters. They don't need the depth - a lot of them are supposed to represent a type and not a specific person - and that is very different from the Melrose novels. But once that part clicks properly, the novel can be hilarious in places and the ends fits perfectly. Add some great writing and I had a few very enjoyable hours with the characters in this novel.
St. Aubyn will return to the New Age topic with Eleanor's story in the Melrose novels. As I read them before this novel, I wonder if this one was not written as a preparation to the much more personal Melrose novel - we don't see the same people but a lot of the same ideas are there, now tied to people who are a lot more familiar to the reader and a lot better realized as characters.
I am not sure I would have liked this novel as much as I did if I had started with it. As different as it is from the Melrose trilogy, it shines in the comparison more than on its own - it almost reads like a companion piece even if it is not connected. Which can be a problem sometimes.
June 20, 2019
You know it is bad when you see the entire three pages of the book are dedicated to something other than the book itself. Oh yeah, there is one pitiful “Praise for On The Edge” on the back of the cover. Some poor bastard had to write “intellectually informed…” as praise. Oh, why bother. This book truly has no redeeming values.
If you are like me, you probably got this book just because you loved Patrick Melrose novels so much. You were probably thinking “what the shit” when you saw “New Age” on the back of the cover. New Age? How shallow and pretentious can this be? But still, if you are like me, you threw ”60-Page Nancy Pearl” rule out the window just because of your loyalty to Patrick Melrose. To be honest, I stayed with this book to the bitter end because of my sister. My older sister doesn’t work because she doesn’t have to. Her waking (and also apparently sleeping) hours are dedicated to a crystal-supported vision quest. She talks obsessively about past life. She sees me and her blood relatives as a reincarnation of unrelated accidents. Because she is an enlightened being who transcended the mortal existence, no one can dare challenge by asking her “what the hell are you talking about?” I wanted to understand why I cannot relate to this spiritual guru of sister. What I can honestly say is that I am not the target audience of New Age crap, no matter how “sharply rendered satire” it meant to be. By the way, why is this book “sharply rendered satire?” It is neither sharply rendered nor a satire. It is a mean-spirited, ugly book.
I am not even going to summarize the storyline. Why? Because this is a book about NOTHING. True to his core, St. Aubyn again created the whole bunch of very dislikable characters. I don’t read books for likable characters. But this bunch of dislikable characters has no substance. They are so thin that they barely exist in the page of the fictional world.
I was really surprised to read very graphic descriptions of people having sex. I was completely grossed out by it. At this point, St. Aubyn seems to be desperate for anything. If this is all you can write, St. Aubyn should walk away from writing.
If you are like me, you probably got this book just because you loved Patrick Melrose novels so much. You were probably thinking “what the shit” when you saw “New Age” on the back of the cover. New Age? How shallow and pretentious can this be? But still, if you are like me, you threw ”60-Page Nancy Pearl” rule out the window just because of your loyalty to Patrick Melrose. To be honest, I stayed with this book to the bitter end because of my sister. My older sister doesn’t work because she doesn’t have to. Her waking (and also apparently sleeping) hours are dedicated to a crystal-supported vision quest. She talks obsessively about past life. She sees me and her blood relatives as a reincarnation of unrelated accidents. Because she is an enlightened being who transcended the mortal existence, no one can dare challenge by asking her “what the hell are you talking about?” I wanted to understand why I cannot relate to this spiritual guru of sister. What I can honestly say is that I am not the target audience of New Age crap, no matter how “sharply rendered satire” it meant to be. By the way, why is this book “sharply rendered satire?” It is neither sharply rendered nor a satire. It is a mean-spirited, ugly book.
I am not even going to summarize the storyline. Why? Because this is a book about NOTHING. True to his core, St. Aubyn again created the whole bunch of very dislikable characters. I don’t read books for likable characters. But this bunch of dislikable characters has no substance. They are so thin that they barely exist in the page of the fictional world.
I was really surprised to read very graphic descriptions of people having sex. I was completely grossed out by it. At this point, St. Aubyn seems to be desperate for anything. If this is all you can write, St. Aubyn should walk away from writing.
August 15, 2022
While in Germany Peter Thorpe met Sabine. A new age free spirit with a lust for life and him apparently. When she leaves without telling him where she is off to, Peter uproots his life as a merchant banker in England to track down clues to her whereabouts which puts him on an unusual path with strange people along the way which ultimately leads to a New Age commune in California. Sabine's brief sojourn in his life has given him a new direction and a desire to have more.
While Peter is in hot pursuit of the new love of his life Sabine, other lost souls, weary travels and downright miserable people all seem to have stumbled on the same path. Coming from around the world and across America, the new attendees of the Esalen retreat are all in search of something, whether that’s stability to their mental health, finding love, discovering the truths about their lives or just taking stock of all the good they have, and regardless of their involvement in activities, will experience a change in views from those they came in with. Either this will be for the good or bad, only time can tell. From the sceptic, to the fully committed New Ager these eclectic and diverse groups of people will make a mark on each other's lives, regardless of the yoga classes, the psychology seminars or the wellness mantras, and start them on a journey into their future.
🌟🌟🌟 I wanted to like this book more than I did. The characters were complex and varied and a lot of the dialogue was very witty but overall I felt bored by the story. I couldn’t attach myself to any of the characters fully as I wasn’t sure I liked most of them to be honest. This impacted my enjoyment of the book and my investment in the outcomes. Some parts were laugh-out-loud funny but unfortunately for me, they were few and far between. I have really enjoyed and loved this author's other books but sadly this one wasn’t for me.
While Peter is in hot pursuit of the new love of his life Sabine, other lost souls, weary travels and downright miserable people all seem to have stumbled on the same path. Coming from around the world and across America, the new attendees of the Esalen retreat are all in search of something, whether that’s stability to their mental health, finding love, discovering the truths about their lives or just taking stock of all the good they have, and regardless of their involvement in activities, will experience a change in views from those they came in with. Either this will be for the good or bad, only time can tell. From the sceptic, to the fully committed New Ager these eclectic and diverse groups of people will make a mark on each other's lives, regardless of the yoga classes, the psychology seminars or the wellness mantras, and start them on a journey into their future.
🌟🌟🌟 I wanted to like this book more than I did. The characters were complex and varied and a lot of the dialogue was very witty but overall I felt bored by the story. I couldn’t attach myself to any of the characters fully as I wasn’t sure I liked most of them to be honest. This impacted my enjoyment of the book and my investment in the outcomes. Some parts were laugh-out-loud funny but unfortunately for me, they were few and far between. I have really enjoyed and loved this author's other books but sadly this one wasn’t for me.
July 26, 2018
In comparison to The Patrick Melrose Novels, On the Edge is light reading. Very witty, often mean, in the end forgiving towards the flaws of the human character and all the New Age fads. The book starts very slowly, and I found it difficult to motivate myself to keep on reading, but after the first third it gets more entertaining. St Aubyn likes to state the hidden motives of the characters right away, while many other authors would slowly and meticulously show them in their characters' actions. It is funny, the way he does it, but it also gives a bit superficial tone to the book, especially now that there are no great tragedies to counterbalance this lightness. Also, I feel that the characters are more like caricatures that three-dimensional persons. This could be St Aubyn's version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. But I must admit that reading St Aubyn makes one (at least me) think about one's own motives in a more lucid manner, the constant need of all human beings to feel good about themselves. That's an achievement as such.
May 16, 2017
Not as good as Never Mind, but maybe that's because it's less shocking. Story of new agers, their love lives, their beliefs.
"'Repent,' said Jerome, 'that's a beautiful word. It's repentare: to think again. It's so beautiful. Later on it became associated with guilt. They invented guilt.'" (pg 69).
"Something had happened and he, like almost everyone else, had got used to the habit of life. Perhaps that was all life was: a habit that resisted the adventure of death. Perhaps Gavin...had never acquired that vital habit, had never stopped being excruciated" (pg. 62). [referring to acquaintance who committed suicide]
"'Repent,' said Jerome, 'that's a beautiful word. It's repentare: to think again. It's so beautiful. Later on it became associated with guilt. They invented guilt.'" (pg 69).
"Something had happened and he, like almost everyone else, had got used to the habit of life. Perhaps that was all life was: a habit that resisted the adventure of death. Perhaps Gavin...had never acquired that vital habit, had never stopped being excruciated" (pg. 62). [referring to acquaintance who committed suicide]
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 27, 2021
I had a feeling I would DNF this at the first line: “Adam arrived at Brooke’s San Francisco mansion wearing the flame-colored Nehru jacket Yves had brought back for him from Paris.” I saw another (one star) review that called this beginning captivating and the only good part of the novel, but for me it was already a big NO.
I’m giving a rating even though I didn’t read the whole book because I skipped to the end and - wow, tantric sex. That’s the “big finish.” A surprising conclusion for deplorable characters the author himself seems to disdain.
I loved the Patrick Melrose novels, but I don’t think I’ll be reading anything more by St Aubyn.
I’m giving a rating even though I didn’t read the whole book because I skipped to the end and - wow, tantric sex. That’s the “big finish.” A surprising conclusion for deplorable characters the author himself seems to disdain.
I loved the Patrick Melrose novels, but I don’t think I’ll be reading anything more by St Aubyn.
October 16, 2017
Very interesting book about people who're attending a "tantric sex" workshop at Esselyn in Big Sur. Written by a very English man, Edward St. Aubyn.
I had a real love-hate relationship with this book. Some parts infuriated me with boredom and irritation, and some parts made me laugh hard. The guy seems to really know people like these characters, but he doesn't seem to like us Americans very much. It made me want to go to Esselyn just to people-watch.
I had a real love-hate relationship with this book. Some parts infuriated me with boredom and irritation, and some parts made me laugh hard. The guy seems to really know people like these characters, but he doesn't seem to like us Americans very much. It made me want to go to Esselyn just to people-watch.
September 27, 2023
Dnf. I don't have time for this garbage.
60 pages in, nothing but boring ramblings of the ultra privileged and their obsession with Eastern Religion meditation.
Published in 1998. Quel surprise. I vaguely remember the 90s talk shows promoting garbage like this, and this is the book equivalent of watching a conceited motivational speaker compare not eating after a bad day with having anorexia.
60 pages in, nothing but boring ramblings of the ultra privileged and their obsession with Eastern Religion meditation.
Published in 1998. Quel surprise. I vaguely remember the 90s talk shows promoting garbage like this, and this is the book equivalent of watching a conceited motivational speaker compare not eating after a bad day with having anorexia.
May 3, 2019
Well written but tediously disappointing 4 this reader:(
December 31, 2019
Pre-Patrick Melrose St Aubyn,, a send up of New Age tourism..
September 8, 2020
Guy can write eh?!
October 21, 2020
Really not good. Not good at all.
Read
December 17, 2021DNF. Maybe I’ll try again in the new year
May 27, 2023
Abandoned after 100 confusing pages, unfortunately. I'm a big Edward St Aubyn fan, so I was very disappointed with this disjointed, messy book.
April 3, 2024
Hmm, I wanted to like it more. I know the world he writes about well, maybe that was the issue.
The ending was great though.
The ending was great though.
November 7, 2024
Nee. Geht nicht in Resonanz mit mir. Weder die Situationen noch die Charaktere noch die affektierte Schreibe.
February 10, 2018
What? Terrible.
September 28, 2014
Copy received through Goodreads’ First Reads program.
Edward St. Aubyn is best known for his very well-regarded Patrick Melrose novels, one of which (Mother’s Milk) earned him a spot on the 2006 Booker shortlist. This book, originally published in 1998 in the UK, was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize, which is no small accomplishment, and when you add in the frequent Waugh comparisons St. Aubyn earns, it’s safe to say I was very excited for this book.
There are some initial bright spots: within the first few pages, St. Aubyn’s archly mocked essentially every character in this book as shallow vessels feigning depth in various New Age-y ways (for example, one character becomes distraught at learning that whales might contract AIDS, and, within half an hour, “he had already appropriated it as his own tragedy”; another gets “the idea that mental health consisted of talking about his sex life to complete strangers”). Mocking absurd characters who fail to appreciate their own ridiculousness is right out of Waugh’s playbook, and makes for some great lines. To wit: ”They represented the complementarity of turquoise and orange, the marriage of fire and water, of Yin and Yang, or Rumi and Shams; but only they knew that. To everyone else they looked like a couple of clowns.”
But St. Aubyn does his job almost too well, and within 20 pages, he’s convinced me that these characters are stupid and annoying, and when he jumps to yet another unlikeable, self-assured blowhard’s navel-gazing drug trip for the next 20 pages, I was already skimming rather than reading, because an academic’s psychedelic-tinged musings on the worlds that exist inside of pebbles or whether culture can exist without language (with references to Nietzsche, Hegel, and Chomsky) are too boring to make for good satire. The topic also seems like it would have been dated even on its release in 1998 - were people really still traipsing around Big Sur and looking for Rumi-quoting gurus in an era where one character listens to a Nirvana Unplugged cassette? (As a former denizen of L.A. a few years after this book’s setting, the best I can think of was the Madonna-inspired kabbalah craze.) The characters feel wooden and their internal thoughts are a combination of too heady and too boring for this to ever really take off anywhere. The plot, such as it is, seems to be just a confluence of various characters showing up at a retreat for not very wacky hijinks to ensue. While there are a few turns of phrase and flashes of St. Aubyn’s talent and skill at crafting a sentence, the whole is less than the sum of those parts.
Edward St. Aubyn is best known for his very well-regarded Patrick Melrose novels, one of which (Mother’s Milk) earned him a spot on the 2006 Booker shortlist. This book, originally published in 1998 in the UK, was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize, which is no small accomplishment, and when you add in the frequent Waugh comparisons St. Aubyn earns, it’s safe to say I was very excited for this book.
There are some initial bright spots: within the first few pages, St. Aubyn’s archly mocked essentially every character in this book as shallow vessels feigning depth in various New Age-y ways (for example, one character becomes distraught at learning that whales might contract AIDS, and, within half an hour, “he had already appropriated it as his own tragedy”; another gets “the idea that mental health consisted of talking about his sex life to complete strangers”). Mocking absurd characters who fail to appreciate their own ridiculousness is right out of Waugh’s playbook, and makes for some great lines. To wit: ”They represented the complementarity of turquoise and orange, the marriage of fire and water, of Yin and Yang, or Rumi and Shams; but only they knew that. To everyone else they looked like a couple of clowns.”
But St. Aubyn does his job almost too well, and within 20 pages, he’s convinced me that these characters are stupid and annoying, and when he jumps to yet another unlikeable, self-assured blowhard’s navel-gazing drug trip for the next 20 pages, I was already skimming rather than reading, because an academic’s psychedelic-tinged musings on the worlds that exist inside of pebbles or whether culture can exist without language (with references to Nietzsche, Hegel, and Chomsky) are too boring to make for good satire. The topic also seems like it would have been dated even on its release in 1998 - were people really still traipsing around Big Sur and looking for Rumi-quoting gurus in an era where one character listens to a Nirvana Unplugged cassette? (As a former denizen of L.A. a few years after this book’s setting, the best I can think of was the Madonna-inspired kabbalah craze.) The characters feel wooden and their internal thoughts are a combination of too heady and too boring for this to ever really take off anywhere. The plot, such as it is, seems to be just a confluence of various characters showing up at a retreat for not very wacky hijinks to ensue. While there are a few turns of phrase and flashes of St. Aubyn’s talent and skill at crafting a sentence, the whole is less than the sum of those parts.
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