by Martin Amis
Acclaim for Martin Amis’s
EXPERIENCE
A Best Book of 2000, The Globe and Mail
“Experience is a beautiful, and beautifully strange book.… As Nabokov does in his memoir, Speak, Memory, so Amis buries his patterns deep in the aesthetic textures of his book.”
— The Guardian
“[Experience] is a sublime essay giving shape and meaning to [Amis’s] chaotic life … a novelist’s memoir in which events are cunningly cross-threaded and intercut like a plot.”
—National Post
“[A] moving and artful memoir.… Amis has written an accessible but subtly patterned meditation on what happens when innocence ‘collides’ with experience.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Experience is a long, wise poem in typically ebullient Amis prose in praise of all that endures: creativity, friendship and love. Most novels should be so richly fulfilling.”
—The Toronto Star
“A balanced, haunting work of memory and memorial, a surprisingly gentle meditation on fathers and sons, mortality, the loss of innocence, divorce, friendship, [and] love.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Striking and satisfying. It’s an edgy and electrifying read.”
—NOW
“A compassionate book, and a very moving one … a book that’s true to the way memory really works—obsessive, elliptical, incomplete, maddeningly non-linear, but deeply revealing.”
—Calgary Herald
“Adept.… The true power of [Amis’s] prose is demonstrated … by those sections dealing with the death of his cousin and father.”
—The Boston Globe
Also by Martin Amis
FICTION
The Rachel Papers
Dead Babies
Success
Other People
Money
Einstein’s Monsters
London Fields
Time’s Arrow
The Information
Night Train
Heavy Water and Other Stories
NONFICTION
Invasion of the Space Invaders
The Moronic Inferno and Other Visits to America
Visiting Mrs. Nabokov and Other Excursions
The War Against Cliché: Essays and Reviews, 1971–2000
Martin Amis
EXPERIENCE
Martin Amis’s books include Money, Dead Babies, The Rachel Papers, The Moronic Inferno, Einstein’s Monsters, London Fields, Time’s Arrow, The Information, Night Train, Heavy Water and Other Stories, and The War Against Cliché: Essays and Reviews, 1971–2000. He lives in London.
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2001
Copyright © 2000 by Martin Amis
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, in 2001. First published in hardcover in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto, in 2000. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Amis, Martin, 1949–
Experience : a memoir
eISBN: 978-0-307-36825-6
1. Amis, Martin, 1949– . 2. Amis, Kingsley — Family. 3. Novelists, English — 20th century — Biography. I. Title.
PR6051.M58Z468 2001 823′.914 C2001-930165-0
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s Web site: www.randomhouse.ca
v3.1
to Isabel Fonseca
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Unawakened
Introductory: My Missing
Rank
Women and Love — 1
Learning About Time
Bus Stop: 1994
The Hands of Mike Szabatura
Failures of Tolerance
Him Who Is, Him Who Was!
The City and the Village
The Problem of Reentry
Permanent Soul
Existence Still Is the Job
Women and Love — 2
Photo Insert
Feasts of Friends
Thinking with the Blood
Part Two: The Main Events
1: Delilah Seale
2: One Little More Hug
3: The Magics
Postscript: Poland, 1995
Appendix: The Biographer and the Fourth Estate
Addendum: Letter to my Aunt
Acknowledgements
PART ONE
UNAWAKENED
Introductory: My Missing
– Dad.
This was my older son, Louis, then aged eleven.
– Yes?
My dad would have said, ‘… Yeeesss?’ — with a dip in it, to signal mild but invariable irritation. I once asked him why he did this and he said, ‘Well I’m already here, aren’t I?’ For him, the Dad-Yes? interlude was a clear redundancy, because we were in the same room together and established as having some kind of conversation, however desultory (and unenlivening, from his point of view). I saw what he meant; but five minutes later I would find myself saying, ‘Dad.’ And then I would brace myself for an especially vehement affirmative. I was a teenager before I broke the habit. Children need a beat of time, to secure attention while the thought is framed.
This is from I Like It Here (1958), Kingsley’s third and most close-to-life novel:*
‘Dad.’
‘Yes?’
‘How big’s the boat that’s taking us to Portugal?’
‘I don’t know really. Pretty big, I should think.’
‘As big as a killer whale?’
‘What? Oh yes, easily.’
‘As big as a blue whale?’
‘Yes, of course, as big as any kind of whale.’
‘Bigger?’
‘Yes, much bigger.’
‘How much bigger?’
‘Never you mind how much bigger. Just bigger is all I can tell you.’
There is a break, and the discussion resumes:
… ‘Dad.’
‘Yes?’
‘If two tigers jumped on a blue whale, could they kill it?’
‘Ah, but that couldn’t happen, you see. If the whale was in the sea the tigers would drown straight away, and if the whale was …’
‘But supposing they did jump on the whale?’
… ‘Oh, God. Well, I suppose the tigers’d kill the whale eventually, but it’d take a long time.’
‘How long would it take one tiger?’
‘Even longer. Now I’m not answering any more questions about whales or tigers.’
‘Dad.’
‘Oh, what is it now, David?’
‘If two sea-serpents …’
How well I remember those vastly stimulating chats. My tigers weren’t just ordinary tigers, either: they were sabre-toothed tigers. And the gladiatorial bouts I dreamed up were far more elaborate than I Like It Here allows. If two boa constrictors, four barracuda, three anacondas and a giant squid … I must have been five or six at the time.
In retrospect I can see that these questions would have played on my father’s deepest fears. Kingsley, who refused to drive and refused to fly, who couldn’t easily be alone in a bus, a train or a lift (or in a house, after dark), wasn’t exactly keen on boats — or sea-serpents. Besides, he didn’t want to go to Portugal, or anywhere else. The trip was forced on him by the terms and conditions of the Somerset Maugham Award — a ‘deportation order’ he called it in a letter to Philip Larkin (‘forced to go
abroad, bloody forced mun’). He won the prize for his first novel, Lucky Jim, published in 1954. Twenty years later I would win it too.
The Rachel Papers appeared in mid-November, 1973. On the night of 27 December my cousin, Lucy Partington, who was staying with her mother in Gloucestershire, was driven into Cheltenham to visit an old friend, Helen Render. Lucy and Helen spent the evening talking about their future; they put together a letter of application to the Courtauld Institute in London, where Lucy hoped to continue studying medieval art. They parted at 10.15. It was a three-minute walk to the bus stop. She never posted the letter and she never boarded the bus. She was twenty-one. And it was another twenty-one years before the world found out what happened to her.
— Dad.
—Yes?
Louis and I were in the car — the locus of so many parental dealings, after a while, when the Chauffeuring Years begin to stretch out ahead of you like an autobahn.
— If nothing else was changed by you not being famous, would you still want to be famous?
A well-executed question, I thought. He knew that fame was a necessary by-product of acquiring a readership. But apart from that? What? Fame is a worthless commodity. It will occasionally earn you some special treatment, if that is what you’re interested in getting. It will also earn you a far more noticeable amount of hostile curiosity. I don’t mind that — but then I’m a special case. What tends to single me out for it also tends to inure me to it. In a word — Kingsley.
— I don’t think so, I answered.
—Why?
—Because it messes with the head.
And he took this in, nodding.*
It used to be said that everyone had a novel in them. And I used to believe it, and still do in a way. If you’re a novelist you must believe it, because that’s part of your job: much of the time you are writing the fiction that other people have in them.* Just now, though, in 1999, you would probably be obliged to doubt the basic proposition: what everyone has in them, these days, is not a novel but a memoir.
We live in the age of mass loquacity. We are all writing it or at any rate talking it: the memoir, the apologia, the c.v., the cri de coeur. Nothing, for now, can compete with experience — so unanswerably authentic, and so liberally and democratically dispensed. Experience is the only thing we share equally, and everyone senses this. We are surrounded by special cases, by special pleadings, in an atmosphere of universal celebrity.† I am a novelist, trained to use experience for other ends. Why should I tell the story of my life?
I do it because my father is dead now, and I always knew I would have to commemorate him. He was a writer and I am a writer; it feels like a duty to describe our case — a literary curiosity which is also just another instance of a father and a son. This will involve me in the indulgence of certain bad habits. Namedropping is unavoidably one of them. But I’ve been indulging that habit, in a way, ever since I first said, ‘Dad.’
I do it because I feel the same stirrings that everyone else feels. I want to set the record straight (so much of this is already public), and to speak, for once, without artifice. Though not without formality. The trouble with life (the novelist will feel) is its amorphousness, its ridiculous fluidity. Look at it: thinly plotted, largely themeless, sentimental and ineluctably trite. The dialogue is poor, or at least violently uneven. The twists are either predictable or sensationalist. And it’s always the same beginning; and the same ending … My organisational principles, therefore, derive from an inner urgency, and from the novelist’s addiction to seeing parallels and making connections. The method, plus the use of footnotes (to preserve the collateral thought), should give a clear view of the geography of a writer’s mind. If the effect sometimes seems staccato, tangential, stop-go, etc., then I can only say that that’s what it’s like, on my side of the desk.
And I do it because it has been forced on me. I have seen what perhaps no writer should ever see: the place in the unconscious where my novels come from. I couldn’t have stumbled on it unassisted. Nor did I. I read about it in the newspaper …
Someone is no longer here. The intercessionary figure, the father, the man who stands between the son and death, is no longer here; and it won’t ever be the same. He is missing. But I know it is common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity. My father lost his father, and my children will lose theirs, and their children (this is immensely onerous to contemplate) will lose theirs.
On the shelf by my desk I have a small double-sided picture-stand which contains two photographs. One is black-and-white and of passport size: it shows a teenage schoolgirl in a V-necked sweater, shirtsleeves and tie. Long brown hair parted at the centre, spectacles, the beginnings of a smile. Above her head she has written, in block capitals: undesirable alien. This is Lucy Partington … The second photograph is in colour: it shows a toddler in a dark flower dress, smocked at the chest, with short puffed sleeves and pink trim. She has fine blonde hair. Her smile is demure: pleased, but quietly pleased. This is Delilah Seale.
The photographs are kept together, and for almost twenty years their subjects lived together in the back of my mind. Because these are, or were, my missing.
* In The Amis Collection (1990) KA wrote: ‘I did once, out of laziness or sagging imagination, try to put real people on paper and produced what is by common consent my worst novel, I Like It Here.’ I share the dedication page with my brother Philip and my sister Sally.
* I didn’t notice, while writing this book (I only noticed while reading it, for revision), how often my free will has been compromised by fame (otherwise known as the media): stymied, finessed, crosspurposed. You’re not meant to mind about this, because fame is meant to be so great. And I don’t complain: I genuflect, and think of my friend Salman Rushdie … Actually there’s a good reason, a structural reason, why novelists should excite corrosiveness in the press. When you review a film, or appraise a film-director, you do not make a ten-minute short about it or him (or her). When you write about a painter, you do not produce a sketch. When you write about a composer, you do not reach for your violin. And even when a poet is under consideration, the reviewer or profilist does not (unless deeply committed to presumption and tedium) produce a poem. But when you write about a novelist, an exponent of prose narrative, then you write a prose narrative. And was that the extent of your hopes for your prose — bookchat, interviews, gossip? Valued reader, it is not for me to say this is envy. It is for you to say that this is envy. And envy never comes to the ball dressed as Envy. It comes dressed as something else: Asceticism, High Standards, Common Sense. Anyway, as I said, I don’t complain about all that — because fame is so great.
* V. S. Pritchett remains magnificently exemplary here; The Complete Short Stories (1990) is a series of dramatic poems about the thoughts of so-called ordinary people. I attempted something similar in Money: it is the novel that John Self, the narrator, had in him but would never write.
† It’s not the case that in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes. In the future everyone will be famous all the time — but only in their own minds. It is lookalike fame, karaoke fame. There’s only one task it’s equal to: it messes with the head.
Letter from School
Sussex Tutors,
55 Marine Parade,
Brighton, Sussex.
23rd Oct. [1967]
Dearest Dad and Jane,*
Thanks awfully for your letter. So we all appear to be working like fucking fools. I seem to be flitting manically from brash self-confidence to whimpering depression; the English is all very fine, but the Latin I find difficult, tedious, and elaborately unrewarding. It would be so boring if it buggered up my Oxford Entrance paper. I spend about 2–3 hours per day on it, but I feel a painful lack of basic knowledge — not being one of those little sods who has been chanting ‘amo, amas, amat’, from the age of eighteen months. Anyway, the set book (Aeneid Bk.II) is pretty splendid, and if I slog through that with sufficient rigour I should b
e O.K. on that part of the ‘O’ level paper.
Mr Ardagh decided that the best plan for Ox. Ent. is to choose about 6 chaps and know them pretty thoroughly, rather than farting about with a bit of everyone. I have chosen: Shakespeare; Donne and Marvell, Coleridge and Keats; Jane Austen; [Wilfred] Owen; Greene; and possibly old Yeats as well. I do enjoy the English but I must say that I get periods of desperately wanting something else to occupy myself with. The prospect of teaching has lost its glow because it means that I will be dealing with the same sort of thing for the next 4 years without much of a break. I hope you don’t think I’m off the idea of Eng. Lit., because I find myself suffused with an ardour for sheer quantity of consumption. In my last few days in London I read ‘Middlemarch’ (in 3 days), ‘The Trial’ (Kafka is a fucking fool — in 1 day) and ‘The Heart of the Matter’ (in 1 day), and even here I manage a couple of novels a week (plus lots of poetry). Its [sic] just that I’m a bit cheesed off with applying myself to the same ideas all the time — but I shouldn’t think its [sic] anything that a paternal — or step-maternal — harangue won’t correct. I’m sorry to be a bore, and it’s probably merely a phase — might even be character-building, who knows.
I thought it very representative of your integrity, Jane, to warn me of the defficiencies [sic] of Nashville.* Much as I’d love to see you both, it does seem that I’ll be doing too much fire-ironing and pie-fingering (I’m sure Jane could adapt that to one of her swirling mixed metaphors), to be able to get away for a full 2—3 weeks. I might have an interview at Oxford as late as the 20th of Dec. and various replies could start coming in as early as Jan 1st. This, coupled with the dire deterrent of U.S. T.V. being lousy, will, I fear, prevent me from coming over. It is a pity because I would dearly love to see you both.
I see young Bruce† pretty regularly, but not regularly enough, it seems, for him to contrive to secure adequate stocks of fish-cakes for my visits. However he seems in fine form … Predictably enough the very word is like a bell to toll me back to Latin Unseens, prose constructions, and like trivia.