Why you hated Martin Amis

And how to love his best novel

(This piece originally appeared on my Substack, Artless. Subscribe to that here.)

Since the announcement last week of Martin Amis’s death, the obituarists have right-clicked through all the synonyms for ‘divisive’. That word ‘synonyms’ feels like a euphemism — for euphemisms. Even the polarity of love-him-or-hate-him doesn’t quite cover it (or I guess now loved-him-or-hated-him). You get the impression that for most readers and writers ≤ 40 he was the Jeremy Clarkson of English lit. Never mentioned without a strong facial expression. So as not to add to the simplification that where you stood ran on generational lines, I suggest a quick scroll through his low-star reviews on Amazon from the retired ‘I had to read this for book club’ crowd. A fan myself from way back, albeit a tested one, I was left by his death with an urge to pick out the common threads in various people’s animus towards Amis.

Conquest of the Useless thought him an “interesting arsehole” while a friend I texted last week said, “Well he was just a bit of prick” — thus encapsulating both sides of the pelvis and also the idea the problem lay in Amis’s personality. As something of an expert on pricks, I’ve always thought this was a bit off-the-mark. Four letters off to be exact. Because are we really talking about a personality here…