At its best, the book is nicely paced, with an engaging cast of drunkards and neurotics thrown together in Citigroup’s London trading room ... What you will not learn very much about is finance ... As a novel, it wouldn’t quite cut it: The dialogue is frequently too on the nose. And the denouement of the book... isn’t exactly a nail-biter.
Stevenson’s book is about himself. No one else gets a real name... which is legally sensible because he portrays almost everyone he meets with an acidic, all-consuming loathing ... This dark but profitable vision is lightened by moments of comic self-importance.
At some point you expect Stevenson to inject some self-reflection into the narrative ... That point never comes. Instead, Stevenson spends 400 pages fulminating against everything and everyone ... This is a well written and often darkly funny book that makes a convincing case that high finance is as toxic, reckless and deeply cynical as ever. It is fantastic that Stevenson now uses his understanding of economics and high finance to campaign against inequality. It falls short as a confession, though, lacking any real introspection, let alone repentance or the making of amends.
All this is described in demotic, fast-paced prose, with some witty asides, that sounds exactly like the speaking voice of someone from Stevenson’s milieu. If it’s all his own work it’s remarkably natural writing ... He isn’t asking for sympathy. He simply tells a vivid story and invites us to make our own judgement.
