The premise of the novel is simple. An unsuccessful contemporary
writer, Richard Tull, has a friend, Gwyn Barry, who has by some inexplicable
stroke of fortune become a highly successful novelist. Both men are intensely
unpleasant individuals, two sides of the same coin, with only book sales
differentiating them. While Tull’s books are unreadably, painfully bad, Barry’s
are bland and inoffensive, yet sell by the million. Readers, it is implied, are
all idiots, writing books is pointless, all modern books are rubbish, and the
publishing industry is full of crooks, thieves and scoundrels.
In response to the failure of his literary career, Tull
plans a complex and rambling scheme to punish Barry for his success. This scheme
never quite comes to fruition, and fizzles out when at each turn Barry has yet
another outrageous stroke of luck to avert the threat of the day. As this
happens so often, there is little or no interest in whether the next threat
will pan out – we know it won’t.
This is another deeply misogynistic book. There are no even
partly convincing female characters – they are simply wives and girlfriends,
defined by their relationships with the male protagonists. They are sexually
used by the men without having any visible or presented say in the matter – for
example at one point Barry has sex with his research assistant, does her the
gracious favour of coming quickly so as not to inconvenience her overly, and
then moves to his wife’s bed to brag about it. Amis is not celebrating this
behaviour of course – my point is that the women are passive in their
acceptance of this abuse. Real women wouldn’t stand for this behaviour for a
second.
I am not going to go on at any more length about the
failures of this book – I have spent too long on this already. If you enjoy
Amis you might like this, but there are many less incestuous, less disappearing
up its own self referential fundament, less simply unpleasant books about the London
literary scene out there.
But. The thing is, despite all this, Amis can write. At its
best his writing is something to savour. Take this:
“He awoke at six, as usual. He needed no alarm clock. He was already
comprehensively alarmed.”
Or this
“Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then
say Nothing. It's nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that...Swing low
in your weep ship, with your tear scans and sob probes, and you would mark
them. Women--and they can be wives, lovers, gaunt muses, fat nurses,
obsessions, devourers, exes, nemeses--will wake and turn to these men and ask,
with female need-to-know, "What is it?" And the men will say,
"Nothing. No it isn't anything really. Just sad dreams.”
“there in the night their bed
had the towelly smell of marriage.”
There is something on every page that is interesting, not
just in the use of language, imagery, etc., but in the author’s ear for how people
speak and think. One example of this is his fascination with idiom. One
character consistently makes mistakes with her idiom, and a whole section of
what passes for a plot revolves around her confusion between the phrase “Gwyn
can’t write for toffee” with what she meant to say, which was that he wouldn’t
write for peanuts – different foodstuff, utterly different meaning.
“Demi’s linguistic quirk is essentially and definingly female. It just
is. Drawing in breath to denounce this proposition, women will often come out
with something like “Up you” or “Ballshit”. For I am referring to Demi’s use of
the conflated or mangled catchphrase – Demi’s speech bargains: she wanted two
for the price of one. The result was expressive, and you usually knew what she
meant given the context… So Demi said “vicious snowball” and “quicksand wit”
and up gum street”; she said “worried stiff” and “beyond contempt” (though not
beneath belief”); she said “on its death legs” and “hubbub of activity” and
“what’s with it with her” (257)….” And so on at length.
Another example is the way he captures a character’s fractured
internal monologue, in this case thinking about an article being written about
him:
“Although Barry was no. A keen. While no jock or gym rat, Barry
responded to the heightened life of fierce competition. He loved games and
sports….with his old sparring. …As a novelist Tull was no. Unfavoured by the
muses, Tull was nevertheless.” (404)
Finally, is it just me or is it hard to forget that Martin is
his father’s son? Sometimes you can hear the grumpy old man being channelled,
especially here where the reference to the waking up still drunk scene in “Lucky
Jim” must surely be deliberate:
“Looking the mirror now, on the morning of his fortieth birthday,
Richard felt that no one deserved the face he had. No one in the history of the
planet. There was nothing on the planet it was that bad to do. What happened?
What have you done, man? His hair, scattered over his crown in assorted folds
and clumps, looked as though it had just concluded a course of prolonged (and
futile) chemotherapy. Then the eyes, each of them perched on its little
blood-rimmed beergut…..His teeth were all chipped pottery and pre-war jet-glue.”
(46)
Kingsley pretty much gave up bothering to try to write convincing
female characters, or indeed anyone other than grumpy old men – is Martin
heading that way?
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