Brightness Falls, by Jay McInerney (Knopf, 416 pp., $23)
IS IT so many years ago already that Jay McInerney was one of a movement, or at least a trio, a brat pack of bright young writers? It is. For Bret Easton Ellis has proved himself to be a stupid brute, and Tama Janowitz, who for hundred-yard dashes was the best of the three, seems to have disappeared. Only McInerney remains.





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