when Martin Amis We published a book, and we would run to bookstores to buy it, because later we would buy drinks, or antidepressants, or other drugs. Martin Amis was the vanguard of intelligence, always on the brink of life, a life peeking into the abyss of privilege, a life of luxury whose sole aim, whose sole justification was intelligence. If you look at all this nonsense in a logical way, welcome.
If you are stupid, die, climb into your mother’s ass and return to non-existence, as in time arrow. The boundary between life and death trembles like a mirage, the reasons for surviving in this world are so distorted, so cruel and vile, so flimsy, the air is so filthy, so you better seize the opportunity to be smart, enjoy it, and know how to love.
Darts, Keith, darts!
Or you don’t even know how to love. It was understood that intelligence would give you some kind of advantage in interpersonal relations, in sympathy, in companionship; but not. the The wit in Martin Amis’s novels is sharp and often cruelIt is inversely proportional to emotional happiness. But this warmth of affection we despised.
There was no point in it, we thought, paradoxically, we were given tickets from any height, under a sky sheltered from any hail. Indeed, we were friends with the cold: the ice in our glasses, the ice in our eyes, the icy fingers with which we listed our reasons for not accepting this or that, but what is beyond. Martin has illuminated us, illuminated the path: let us go this way, smart people go this way. That’s language, and that’s what we can do with it: spin it, enjoy it, use it, and don’t let yourself take advantage of it.
Rachel Papers, Money, London Fields (All published in Spain by Anagrama) They were essential novels for those of us born in the 70s and raised in the 90s. there was Other writers from Amis’s generation Who also intrigued us, and impressed a lot, like Ian McEwan or Kazuo Ishiguro or Jonathan Coe, but Amis was the heart of that generation, for us.
The bad boy who sticks out his tongue and does whatever he wants in English with a stretch institutionAnd with narration. Amis was the troublemaker who wrote with the stated goal of taking writing one step further: beyond plot, beyond character, beyond prose, beyond morality. The latter was very important, and this is where all his interviews ended.
The interviewers wanted him to tell: You are a POSMODERM and have no morals. And he wanted to say to them: I have morals, but what I am is modern, and you do not understand anything. We, his readers all over Europe, understood: we understood and wanted to jump for joy when we read his books, as if we were at an OMD (Enola Gay!) or a Depeche Mode party. The joy of decadence, disappearance, destruction and hopelessness: The sparkle of the explosion.
Martin Amis was a posh man, he knew it, he spoke like a posh man and he was the middle son of a man who sold thousands of copies of humorous intellectual novels, and who was the best friend of the poet Philip Larkin who wrote it. something about it They fuck you on your mom and dad, they may not mean to, but they do (“Your parents cheat on you, even if they don’t want to, they may not do it on purpose, but they do.”).
Martin was a man with a determined life and, at the same time, a man with a thirst for success, thirsty to make a living the only way he knew how, and for which he had spent his whole life training, being at his best. The environment to reach the pinnacle of art worked on at home: writing.
But Amis dies, and suddenly our age progresses and changes. We are the others in the world, and we are the only ones, because he died
This wordsmithing was the framework of his life, the only job imaginable. During his childhood, his father married Elizabeth Jane Howard, the wonderful writer, With a tremendous imagination, he knew how to reduce a kind of English life in some delicious novel, with that mixture of incomprehensible passion and dark moonlight over the sea that Elena Fortun has in Spain, for example. They are two writers, Howard and Fortun, for whom it was necessary to pass time and leave sand on their books, that we might surrender to that sense of archaeological wonder: we got this and we didn’t know how to see it! How would we have seen if Kingsley Amis and all of Great Britain made a fuss.
From the noise of Kingsley emerged Martin Amis, struggling with his skinny little frame with a big head from under his father’s shadow. It was a long struggle that is over expertise, an extraordinary autobiography of someone so young, in which he was able to explain what it was like to be his father’s son and also what it meant to be the cousin of a woman murdered by one of the greatest psychopaths in the history of England, Frederick West: The Darkness That Eaten the Light. What an impression we will have when we read Lucy’s poem before the image of that murderer eating an onion with stings … Reading this book by Ames was the first time we understood that we had been reading detective novels backwards for so long.as if the heroes were the villains instead of the victims.
And this feeling, the opposite of morality, took it to its logical extremes time arrow, the history of the Holocaust backwards, the story of a doctor who created Jews from emaciated corpses, a god who created humans and sees how the Nazis shut up so that they disappear and return to their mothers’ wombs. The novel was perfectly executed, although in the cinema it was called A.S higher principles: it stays with you, it is not forgotten, but perhaps it has no more travel than its brilliance, like a comet that never touches the earth.
The camera shot was placed by him. Then we moved a few steps there or here
This was much blamed on Ames: Very intelligent, very loose in his moral highness. especially since his friend Christopher Hitchens died, and his tutor Saul Bellow, and he was at odds with half of England, so far in the middle of the Atlantic and so successful that his kingdom was no longer of this world. He started writing about Stalin, who was suddenly the next villain to match (how much evil is there, Ames: Stalin? Nothing close to you?) and attacked windmills here and there, it seemed so random and not worth the nasty muck. . We stopped running off the table every time I pulled out a book.
Gradually becoming a gentleman who did not look at us as we demanded he look at us, he began, like Socrates, like all gentlemen before him, like us when we were quite ladies, to say to one another: But who you are, I don’t care. Like you say. It is possible that what you say cannot even be said.
(But Martin, our love, that’s what your father told you!)
But now he goes and dies Martin Amis. We put Martin Amis in the spotlight. The camera shot was placed by him. Then we moved a few steps there or here. But Amis dies, and suddenly our age advances and changes. We are the others in the world, and we are the only ones, because he died.
Eva Cruz works in Hoy por Hoy (Cadena Ser). His first novel was titled “Twenty Years of Sol” (DNA).