RIP Martin Amis, My Literary Nemesis

"There's only one rule I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind." - Kurt Vonnegut, 'God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater'

Martin Amis, titan of postmodern British literature, is dead. This actually happened a while ago—May 20th to be exact—but I wanted to run the interview with Abe Epperson that week. Go give money to Abe and Michael Swaim’s film, Papa Bear, a coming-of-age comedy about the time Michael’s dad came out as a gay furry. It sounds amazing, full of empathy and heart, plus you already know those dudes are funny. Man, I can’t wait for this film.

Anyway, Martin Amis died. I debated talking about this because I have nothing nice to say about Martin Amis, though I’ll try not to be too mean. I read London Fields during a summer creative writing program I took at the University of Manchester back in undergrad. Amis was teaching there at the time, though not us summer study abroaders. He did deign to have an evening lecture event one time, which I don’t super remember, but that’s not his fault, really.

Portrait Of The Artist On Study Abroad (credit: the 2009-ass camera I was using for accurately capturing my vision)

Afterwards, I wanted to at least say hi—how does an undergrad not say hi to a Literary Titan, especially an undergrad in the early stages of Salman Rushdie fandom?—and wanted to say I was enjoying the program. I was not enjoying London Fields, finding it contemptuous of its characters, self-satisfied with its obvious satire, and overwrought. But who cares what I think? Old-ass Marty was outside, smoking a cigarette with a couple of my classmates—which was a thing I didn’t mind doing back then, too. He was less than friendly and almost standoffish, but whatever. Honestly who cares. Then he said the thing that crystalized my feelings about Martin Amis. A classmate asked something to the effect of “why don’t you write more women characters?” His response:

“Well, women don’t really do much, do they? It’s men who go out and do stuff, do interesting things.”

Look, I’m really not trying to assassinate a dead man’s character. The sheer dismissiveness, though. The bone-deep lack of curiosity. The way that answer fit with the question I was having, which was: “is the writer of London Fields anything like the smug, dickish third-person omniscient narrator of London Fields?”

the program also took us to Haworth, and idk if “writing one of the few 19th-century books Chris will re-read” counts as “a woman doing something,” but Emily Brontë did that (credit: my emo phase; the restraint I showed here by not putting that effect where it’s black and white except one color, like Sin City)

My dear friend Chloe N. Clark talks about Billy Collins as her writing nemesis (for good reason, Billy Collins sucks). Being a peace-loving dude (read: painfully shy and non-confrontational), I didn’t think I had a nemesis. But what other word describes my feeling toward Martin Amis? Poor dead bastard.

42,000 dead people in this Haworth cemetery, as of 2009 (credit: werewolves. All death in Haworth is werewolves)

I think there’s something healthy to having a literary nemesis. There are ideologies and Types Of Guys we define ourselves against. In small doses, that’s fine. Non-consuming doses. Not even talking ideologies like “Nazis” or anything. Just people who make you go, “my project is not that.” It’s important for the literary community to be a place where we lift each other up and support each other, but having a passionate reaction against a piece of art reminds you that you are unique, you are capable of thinking for yourself, and you have things you care about.

another perfectly fine nemesis to have is a bartender who gives you a pint of milk when you ask for a White Russian (credit: whomever has kept The Big Lebowski out of the British Isles all these years)

We should not speak ill of the dead—my parents and my former pastor and his wife read this blog—so no more talking about Amis. Let me instead say what I hope whenever you read my writing: I hope my writing reads like it was written joyously, curiously, and with heart. A heart clogged with cheeseburgers, sure, but heart. I hope my writing reads like I love my characters, even when they’re touch-the-fire-to-see-if-it’s-hot morons. The New Yorker, which has moments of brilliance every once in a while, once wrote that “Raymond Chandler wrote like pain hurt and life mattered,” and that seems like an aspirational eulogy. Also, you know, my books are gonna have monsters and ghosts, too, so y’know, hope you get a little spooked sometimes, too.

Also let me say what I hope if you ever meet me: that you think I was a nice guy and a cool hang, someone who is generous, and kind, or at least “pretty weird, but in the way I thought he was going to be?”

21-year-old Werewolf Chris would like to re-iterate that noooothing in those two paragraphs had aaaaanything to do with Martin Amis (credit: whatever this actual field in London was, it was a cool hang)

(Funny side note: in the last article of the five-part Calvin and Hobbes series I did for Cracked, I said something about wanting to honor Bill Watterson’s work and make sure the audience felt they could get the same joy out of Calvin and Hobbes as I did. I don’t remember the exact wording, but some asshole DMed me on Twitter turning my words around, “you dishonored Bill Watterson and took away the joy from C&H” or some shit like that. It was the funniest hate mail I’ve ever gotten. Thanks for hate-reading all five articles, my guy. Anyway, now I’m certain that the above paragraphs will be used against me in a future book review.)

RIP Martin Amis. Look, Manchester’s a wonderful city. The Chicago of The U.K.

Sorry you got an email,

Chris