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.
I read Money over the summer in order to learn how to write better prose. It was a hilariously entertaining verbal feast. Amis’s fast-paced, pellucid, luxuriant writing style reminds one of your own, though unbound by the gravity of philosophical argumentation. John Self is a peculiarly alive and unforgettable character, as well as the perfect encapsulation of the American soul (or lack thereof)–of American ‘culture’.
He is one hell of a writer with many great books, all hilarious. My writing is a combination of Russell, Nabokov, and Amis.
From Martin Amis interview to NYT on Jan 18, 1998 (a promo to “Night Train” publishing)
Q: …. But aren’t contemporary writers, including yourself, guilty of seeking celebrity to sell books?
A: You’re right that novelists have somehow bled out of the book pages and into the feature pages. That’s because there are so many feature pages that they need a broader range of fodder. It’s also because many readers are more interested in the teller than the tale, and more interested in biography than fiction. A ”personality” is easier to grasp than a body of work. It means that you can have a personal take on a writer. ”Ooh, I can’t stand him!” ”Ooh, I think he’s great!” There’s always going to be a hard core of excellent readers out there, whose attention is worth striving to get, but that core does seem to be shrinking a bit.
Q: You’re hosting an intimate dinner party and can invite anyone, living or dead. Who makes the guest list?
A: Shakespeare, Milton, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Vladimir Nabokov. My friend Saul Bellow to mediate with these great figures. And Demi Moore to sit between me and Saul.
Very Martin, not very Demi. VN would be sitting between GE and JA, ignoring S and M.
Your post triggered me to read a bit about Amis Jr — he was a long time on my to read list, but I have not got to read him yet. What is his best work in your opinion — I don’t think I would have the time for reading more than one novel of his?
Unrelated, today I came across a speech of Martin Amis on the occasion of Nabokov’s 100 birthday. Besides the admiration of Nabokov and understanding of his work, it contains a few masterly curated quotes.
– This is from Pnin, after our endearing hero has had a desolate tryst with his vile and beloved ex-wife: “To hold her, to keep her, just as she was with her cruelty, her vulgarity, with her blinding blue eyes, with her miserable poetry, with her fat feet, with her impure dry sordid infantile soul. All of a sudden he thought if people are reunited in heaven — I don’t believe it but suppose – then how shall I stop it from creeping upon me, over me, that shriveled helpless lame thing, her soul.”
The entire speech is here: https://martinamisweb.com/pre_2006/amisnabokov.htm
Just one–that’s a tall order. Most people like Money the best, but I perversely suggest Success, which is not about success but the gaping gutter.
I’m very glad you are still with us and writing and thinking….
I did the world a favor, right? And what did it do for me?
The world has always been a poor accountant.
But whatever the world does or doesn’t return, the fact remains that you’ve given it a great deal to think with and about, and that isn’t something it can take back or perhaps properly repay.
The value of a contribution isn’t remotely exhausted by how it is received. It isn’t constituted or settled by recognition.
Well and beautifully said. And there is more to come.