The problem with some writers is that at a certain point in their careers they start creating expectations. Then, when, after a series of more or less spectacular ups and downs, the career comes to an abrupt end, that expectation turns into a kind of entitlement, and the works bequeathed by deceased novelists and essayists take shape more or less reluctantly. “Reached a certain status – says a The pressure the literary critic of New Yorker James Wood – we are beginning to expect writers to tell us the past, the present and the future.”
So if the author in question was a master of thought, a champion of the cue and attitude like Martin Amis, then by his death he risks reading a lot more than he meant to say; and it goes without saying that it almost entirely misrepresents its intentions.
Amis’s relationship with critics has always been one of ups and downs, as has his relationship with publications, although he denied this, along with every other negative aspect of his professionalism. “He claimed he needed neither critics nor editors – says a The pressure B. British essayist Geoff Dyer – in the first case I think it was the fear of being confronted with the evidence of unsuccessful work, in the second case the certainty of having your back against the wall. Of course he needed both badly, like everyone else.”
Especially in the last years of his life – he died on May 19, a day after the publication of his latest memoir in Italy The story from within (edited by Einaudi for Gaspare Bona’s translation) – Amis had become something of a judgment machine for public opinion, even endowed with a certain foresight for many. “He had a very commanding public voice – comments Wood – perhaps that’s why he was expected to answer as clearly as sentences.” Undoubtedly he was, and always has been, endowed with a certain keen awareness of the world around him. “He had a keen sense of the zeitgeist,” Dyer says, and this fueled his drive to become some sort of public intellectual, like his lifelong friend Christopher Hitchens. For a time, they both had the exact pulse of what was happening in the world and the right words to express it, to convey it,” not without a healthy dose of uncontrolled opinion, but at least not for that reason, fuzzy for a beautiful one time of their lives. “After a while, though, I think there was a kind of discrepancy: Amis was still quite capable of analyzing what was happening, but it’s like he’s a step behind linguistically.” Lionel Asbo – the State of England (published in Italy in 2012 by Einaudi and translated by Federica Aceto) was one of the fruits of this period of downturn and was undoubtedly noticed.”
Any novelist, especially when they are particularly prolific, can experience moments of weariness and creative exhaustion. The 2000s were particularly troublesome for Americans. Perhaps, also and above all, because of the high expectations that were to be expected at that point in time, with the death of his perfect counterpart Hitchens, and as he clearly analyses The story from within They overwhelmed him, without him being able to concentrate as clearly as before. After the release of The pregnant widow (Einaudi, 2010, translated by Maurizia Balmelli) Someone had the audacity to ask him if it was a return to form. “I’ve always been fit!” Amis thundered in response. “What is this form story? I have no idea where you’re going, but I think my talent is absolutely powerful.” No doubt he liked to project an image of solid and unwavering security in the face of any situation. “Yet he was capable of a great deal of self-doubt,” says Wood, “which oozed from his most personal sides.” He probably just didn’t like that aspect of his character becoming the subject of public attention.
“He was one of the funniest people I’ve ever known,” Dyer recalls, “that’s something you must never forget.” This irony of his was often cruel, publicly cruel, and useful in disguising difficulty, really about himself Whether it was, as some liked to put it, unfathomable British humor or not, Amis had a thunderous response to every question, and when it came to criticism, he always knew the buttons to press to vent his outrage to make, especially with his amused voice US critics. “These are people willing to bill for tissues in hospitals,” comments Dyer, who, like Yanks and Wood, is Brite on American soil. “If there’s one thing you can loudly complain about and Marty doesn’t miss an opportunity to criticize, it’s America.”
In a powerful essay, never translated in Italy, entitled The moronic inferno and released in 1986, Amis points the finger for the first time at what would become his home in fits and the reason for all his lamentations. “The identical, crazily arranged buildings at the interchanges, the motel signs, the goofy glee of the Dunkin’ Donuts mascot winking at a billboard,” he wrote in his bombastic language. I think – Indiana, Illinois, Iowa – but this relentless repetition of childish clichés gives me courage: “I’m definitely in America.”
And it is in this land of infinite repetition that the claims of clairvoyance and omniscience were most unleashed. Like few before him, Amis had what it took to become the literary superstar the critics wanted: he was always outspoken, had a die-hard cult following, had an interesting accent, and never flinched when he spoke reported. The chance to fight. All qualities that have always captivated overseas commentators from Ernest Hemingway to Fran Lebowitz.
“There was a writer and there was a character,” concludes Dry Wood, who for most of his career had a close relationship with Americans on and off the paper — and I don’t think they knew each other.” And even if they did , that doesn’t mean they liked each other. Both appeared objective and orderly, systematic, while the other gave the impression of a categorical and fuzzy character. Undoubtedly both helped define a literary myth that is now traditionally extolled, commented on and almost certainly misrepresented. Memories remain of those who admired the writer and got to know the man in his complex simplicity.
“I would have liked to have played a tennis match – is Dyer’s last thought – by the time we met he had already stopped. I think it would have been an interesting experience: that anger and that reluctance together had to work wonders.”
