Success

My BA diploma paper was about Martin Amis, a highly humorous postmodern writer. My paper concerned itself with some of his most famous books ('Other People', 'Money', 'London Fields' and' Time's Arrow') which are also a bit more serious literature than what he wrote at a younger age. This means that 'Success',which is his third novel, and which is one of my favorites, was left out. It may not be as substantial as his later novels, but it has such great humour, that I decided to share some of it with you. This is how 'Success' begins:

'Terry speaking,' I said.
The receiver cleared its throat.
'Oh hello, Miranda,' I went on. 'How are you? No, Gregory isn't here at the moment. Ring a bit later. Okay. Bye.'
Gregory was in fact sitting next door at the kitchen table, his hands palm-upwards on its grained surface. 'Succes?' he asked. I nodded and he sighed.
'She's started sending me obscene poems now, ' he said.
There seemed no point in not humouring him. 'Really? What sort of obscene poems?
'Has a girl ever sent you an obscene poem?'
'I don't think so.'
'I can't cope with this. Things to do with my "proud beam". And stuff about her "amber jewel". Or perhaps it's my amber jewel - I'm not sure.'
'Sounds as though it's her amber jewel. I mean, she wouldn't have a proud beam, would she?'
'She might. I wouldn't put anything past her. She might have two.'
'What has she got to say about your proud beam? In this obscene poem.'
'She just goes on and on about it. I could hardly bear to read the thing. I can't cope with it. I don't need this.'
'How disgusting,' I said with enthusiasm. 'Well, what are you going to do about it, Greg?'
'That's just it. What can I do? Say, "Look, let's have no more obscene poems, okay? Cut out the obscene poems"? Scarcely. I could always call the police, I suppose... let the police clear up the matter. And the horrible things she makes me do in bed...'
'Why don't you just tell her to go away?'
Gregory looked up at me with puppyish awe. 'Can one do that sort of thing? Is that - is that what you'd do?'
'Christ, no. I'd make her make me do horrible things in bed. I'd even let her write me obscene poems. I'd even write her obscene poems back.'
'Would you really?'
'You bet. I'm desperate.I'm tortured by need. Hardly anybody seems to want to fuck me any more. I don't know why.' [......................................]

In contrast to Gregory's standard female consorts (they're all haughty sirens with convex faces, collar-stud bums and names like Anastasia and Tap. They're sheeny, expensive and almost invariably twice my height. I practically call them sir), Miranda contrives to give the impression that she is a member of the human race - having met her, you could quite easily run away with the idea that you both belonged to the same planet.

Friday 12 January 2007