Martin Amis and Me

Martin Amis and Me

I first met Martin Amis in the late 1970s. We were the same height and build, though he had a wider mouth. Of course, I had read several of his father’s novels. At this time, I had read Martin’s The Rachel Papers, Dead Babies, and Success (which I particularly liked), and had just finished his fourth novel Other People. I decided to write to him at his publishers, Jonathan Cape (with whom I later had a brush in the person of the estimable Liz Calder—she rejected my first novel though she encouraged me to go on). A few days later my friend Antonia Phillips (wife to the late Gareth Evans and then Martin Amis) handed me a note written by Martin, thanking me for my complimentary letter and telling me he himself had no belief in the afterlife. Soon I had an invitation to meet Martin at his flat in Notting Hill Gate. I showed up with Antonia one evening to meet the man. We played pinball in his kitchen (he had a full-sized machine there). We talked about his novels and I asked which was his favorite; he hesitated and said probably his next, which turned out to be Money. It was all very agreeable.

Sometime later I decided I wanted to write some fiction myself, no doubt stimulated by Martin’s work (we were of the same generation). You could say my own effort Bad Patches was in the same vein. However, I saw little of Martin after our first meeting, though I tried to go to his book signings when they were nearby. I felt disappointed about this and I don’t really know why it happened (he was getting ridiculously famous and in demand). We remained friendly but didn’t hang out together. He invited me to his fortieth birthday party in London, but by this time I was living in New York (he remarked to me that this wasn’t much of an excuse). I continued to read his publications, all of them, always with enjoyment and admiration (the book on Stalin the least). I went to readings of his in New York and said a quick hello. When I moved to Miami, he gave a reading at my local bookstore and I trotted along (it was from The Zone of Interest).

Some years ago, I asked him if he’d like to come to George Soros’s house in Southampton along with his then wife Isobel Fonseca. They came and Martin and I played some tennis on George’s court and then had dinner. It was a delightful evening. By this time Martin was living in America himself, but not near me (though he later bought a house in Florida). I would say we were good friends by then, though not able to spend much time together. I had known him and read him assiduously for over forty years; he was part of my mental landscape. I felt very fond of him. We also both loved Lolita (the book not the girl, though we felt for little Dolores Haze). We had a powerful affinity. He smoked a lot, though, and I didn’t. He was incredibly funny. He was the Martin Amis.

Two and a half years ago, I was receiving radiation therapy for cancer, delivered to my neck and part of my face (there is still no hair on most of the right side). It is grueling stuff; I don’t recommend it. One morning I opened the New York Times to read on the front page that Martin Amis had just died. Throat cancer. The old affinity persisted. I had known nothing about this, so it was a complete surprise. A part of my life dropped out. I told my cancer doctor (skinny, six foot three) about it in our weekly chat. At this time, I had no idea whether I would pull through. I recall that moment in Martin’s kitchen playing pinball together. Pity about the afterlife.