I am probably a bigger fan of Martin Amis than I am of his brilliant and too-imitated father. I often wish more writers, particularly American writers, took his verbal verve as inspiration. I've always loved the way MA broke all the rules of the "how to write" school -- his brazen use of adverbs, etc. When I started reading Amis in my early twenties, he gave me hope.
I devoured book after book. But as I grew up (i.e., entered my thirties) it began to dawn on me that he had a brilliant style, with nothing to say. I kept thinking -- God, he ought to be writing copy for Mercedes or something, what a waste of talent to the advertising community. Because despite advancing age, he clearly lacked the insight and maturity to write about women, violence, nuclear fear, the Holocaust.
The early books, I thought, were about something. The Rachel Papers was about self-regarding first love, Success about growing up and putting our childhood heartbreaks behind us, though it might mean losing our souls in the process. Other People fascinated because I lived through something like the protagonist. How did this guy tap into my experience? I was deeply impressed.
Then came the big books that made him famous and rich: Money, London Fields, The Information. In which characters became less real, too cartoonlike, too cliched to move the reader to indentification, the books themselves too long, wearing out attention span and killing their own too-grand themes. Night Train and Time's Arrow brief, merely clever style exercises full of what we already know. The world is bad and scary. So what else is new?
It's amazing that Amis's next book is called Against Cliche, because for all his brilliant word combinations, his characters and situations are nothing but cliche.
I can always bank on being entertained by Amis, but in the mode of illicit, glossy magazines. I no longer get the sense that his books are deeply felt, that they do what real literature ought to do. He can't enlighten, because he only states the obvious, he's afraid of approaching the tough stuff. It's a shame, because he's got to be in possession of the best set of technical skills out there.
After reading all but one of his novels, and then this memoir, I almost feel like I know too much about the guy, and I'm liking him less and less. To wit: This Lucy Parkington business. Amis has written, over and over again, of suicidal, self-destructive women who bring on their own murders. Fair enough, until I found out he had a young woman in his own family on the missing persons list as he scribbled away. I don't blame him for answering the call to write about it, but why, in his books, are they always asking for it? Was it too painful for him to contemplate the truth -- that innocent girls do get done in for no good reason? I guess it makes libertine boomer males like him feel better to think so. Why didn't he even try to imagine it, fictionally, as it probably occured? And then all this self-righteous finger pointing when the killer confesses.
A likewise fascinating and unexpected parallel was this lost love child of his, this girl who surfaced at eighteen, her mother having committed suicide when the daughter was only two. Heartbreaking stuff, but was that before or after MA wrote about female suicide in Success? Enquiring readers want to know. We also want to know about the girl's mother, her relationship with Martin, who was told about the baby's existence. Did he feel responsible when his ex-lover died? His thoughts on adultery? Saying nothing, he tends to incriminate himself. Where is the story? Juicy, poignant, anticlimactic. It's not here.
There is lots here for people who like literary gossip, but it's pretty smarmy and unrevealining. Supposedly he didn't want to drag up too much mud, hurt anyone's feelings further, vis a vis the ex-wife, Julain Barnes, etc. But the reader's peaked interest is unfulfilled. Maybe when he's seventy, he'll tell all.
He likewise fails to take responsibility for his teeth. In the childhood photo on the cover, and in nearly every adult photo inside, Martin is shown sucking on a cigarette. This can't be good for his gums, I feel.
Next to the structural outline of his real life as revealed here, his recent novels seem more empty and parodic than ever. That's too bad. He's a highly talented writer, who could be a great, classic writer. When you next sit down, Martin, tell us the real story: the messy love life, the real people. I'm not saying expose everyone, but you have to know more about life than you're letting on.
