{"id":164379,"date":"2023-05-26T12:45:00","date_gmt":"2023-05-26T16:45:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=164379"},"modified":"2023-05-26T12:51:20","modified_gmt":"2023-05-26T16:51:20","slug":"the-british-male-on-martin-amis","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/05\/26\/the-british-male-on-martin-amis\/","title":{"rendered":"\u201cThe British Male!\u201d: On Martin Amis"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Amis in L\u00e9on, Spain, 2007. Photograph by Javier Arce. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0<\/a>, via Wikimedia Commons<\/a>.<\/p><\/div>\n

To be British is a very complicated fate. To be a British novelist can seem a catastrophe. You enter into a miasma of history and class and garbage and publication\u2014the way a sad cow might feel entering the abattoir. Or certainly that was how I felt, twenty years ago, when I entered the abattoir myself. One allegory for this system was the glamour of Martin Amis. Everyone had an opinion on Amis, and the strangeness was that this opinion was never just on the prose, on the novels and the stories and the essays. It was also an opinion on his opinions: the party gossip and the newspaper theories, the Oxford education and the afternoon tennis.<\/p>\n

The British male! Or at least the British bourgeois male, with his many father figures, both real and acquired. From certain angles, in certain photos, Amis looked like Jagger, and so he became the Jagger of literature. He was small, true\u2014I feel a permanent pang of camaraderie at his line in The Pregnant Widow<\/i> about a character who occupies that \u201cmuch-disputed territory between five foot six and five foot seven\u201d\u2014but he was also hypermasculine. It wasn\u2019t just his subjects: the snooker and the booze and the obsession with judging all women \u201csack artists.\u201d It wasn\u2019t even just the style: an inability to leave a sentence alone without chafing at every verb, the prose equivalent of truffle fries. It was also the interview persona, all haughtiness and clubhouse universality, however much that could be contradicted in private by thoughtfulness and generosity of conversation.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

But most of all, his British maleness was in the purity of his comic perception of the world. He practiced a very specific form of oral literature\u2014anecdote, putdown, punchline, alcoholic joke: monologues from the ruined-dinner table. This morning I picked up an old copy of Money<\/i>\u00a0taken from my parents\u2019 house and there they were, the riffs: \u201cYou just cannot park round here any more. Even on a Sunday afternoon you just cannot park round here any more. You can<\/i> doublepark on people: people can doublepark on you. Cars are doubling while houses are halving.\u201d Or: \u201cI should have realized that when English people say they can play tennis they don\u2019t mean what Americans mean when they say they can play tennis. Americans mean that they can play tennis.\u201d Or: \u201cThis guy had no future in the frightening business. He just wasn\u2019t frightening.\u201d A novel by Amis is an apparatus for each line to find its best exposure. ” ‘Yeah,\u201d I said, and started smoking another cigarette. Unless I specifically inform you otherwise, I\u2019m always smoking another cigarette.\u201d<\/p>\n

This vision of the world as comedy is why the Amis novel that still seduces and alarms me most is Time\u2019s Arrow<\/i>, his first experiment into Europe. That novel famously tells the life of Tod T. Friendly in reverse, beginning in a postwar American suburb and ending with him transformed into Odilo Unverdorben, one of the psychopathic doctors at Auschwitz. This means that appallingly touching things happen in the camp: gold is carefully placed back into Jewish mouths; smoke becomes a corpse, which becomes a living person, who is then beautifully reunited with their family. Ghettos are dismantled. Meanwhile, everything is narrated in a tremulous high style: there is, for example, the shoe, in an antechamber to the gas chambers, \u201clike a heavy old bullet thrown out of the shadows, and skilfully caught.\u201d Naturally, our narrator is delighted by this beautiful arc of history, always tending towards improvement\u2014\u201cA shockingly inflamed eyeball at once rectified by a single injection. Innumerable ovaries and testes seamlessly grafted into place. Women went out of that lab looking 20 years younger.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course it\u2019s appalling; of course it\u2019s tasteless. But the novel reaches the kind of discovery that\u2019s possible only by way of that mythical vehicle the English Comic Novel\u2014wherein no evil is approached directly and all ethical judgments take place within aesthetic terms. Now, I deeply dislike the so-called English Comic Novel. It is a terrible vehicle: broken down and leaking and inadequate, hopelessly limited as a means for investigating the apparently real. But Amis, strapped into that vehicle forever, somehow had the talent and the intuition to make such limit cases his constant terrain. And what I love about Amis is how\u2014so British, sure; so male\u2014he recklessly drove the English Comic Novel into that insane and treacherous territory, and beautifully smashed it to pieces.<\/p>\n

\u2014Adam Thirlwell, advisory editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember hating any book, before or since, the thoughtless way I loathed The Rachel Papers<\/i>, from the moment my worst ex-boyfriend, a blond aspiring novelist and provocateur, began to read it out loud at me in college. He saved special relish and aggression for the masterfully farcical scene in which the narrator, after using their last condom to cheat on his girlfriend, is caught short when she appears and wants to fuck\u2014he must surreptitiously fish one of the already sodden, shriveled things out of the grimy wastepaper basket and wrestle it back on in order to oblige. Somehow I felt each sentence as a personal attack\u2014the florid snideness, the rollicking physicality\u2014and for years after getting rid of that boyfriend the novel stayed with me, images and phrases coming back unbidden and familiar and savage as vomit: \u201ca fine double-yolker\u201d of a pimple, \u201cbeady dread,\u201d \u201cgreasy permissiveness,\u201d \u201cyobs\u201d with \u201cfaces like gravy dinners,\u201d stomachs laced with \u201cworms of dirt \u2026 like baby eels,\u201d naked women smelling like \u201cboiled eggs and dead babies,\u201d youthful \u201cteeming breasts\u201d and older ones \u201cso flaccid you could tie them in a knot,\u201d \u201cdentures clicking like castanets,\u201d a “gash of sunlight” falling “athwart the bed.\u201d It took me some time to register how much more there was to Amis\u2014to that novel, and to his later, stranger, more ambitious books. But this week, even my initial disgust at Rachel<\/i> is mutating in retrospect. How many contemporary English writers, in those callow days, impressed me only with dullness or mild embarrassment? And here was a mind whose smallest spewings on a page could cause me physical anguish, spike their enlivening way into my everyday perceptions\u2014no wonder so many lesser writers strove to imitate him, from my ex to Jacob Epstein, who apparently resorted to copying out whole passages of Rachel <\/i>to stuff inside his own debut. Not to mention that the book that so undid me was, by the time I got to it, already some thirty years old\u2014as pungent then as it must have been when the twentysomething enfant terrible had published it in 1973. Age hadn\u2019t withered him; I\u2019m sure death won\u2019t remove his sting.<\/p>\n

\u2014Lidija Haas, deputy editor<\/b><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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