The great humans of substance are dying off daily. We’re left with insipid, shallow masters of sideshow crapola.
Well, the former will at least miss the black shroud of death-loving fascist racist murderous conservatism now looming over the civilized world.
Girl from the North Country
Thanks, noone. I found your comment when I came on here to post this extract from that piece, which I thought cleek (and maybe russell) would appreciate:
“In this state, it can be hazardous to read Martin Amis—to suffer the thrills of envy (I want it!), larceny (Can I steal it?), resentment (Bastard!), all leading where? Ah, you know where: into a writer’s dark night, the meat-locker chill of professional despair. The ego, inverted. I might as well give up. Pete Townshend and Eric Clapton, watching Jimi Hendrix at The Scotch of St James in London, were (according to Townshend) so harrowed with fear and wonder that they found themselves meekly holding hands. The apprentice writer reads Martin Amis, and whose hand can he hold but his own? “
Lovely words on that list.
Shout out to Girl From The North Country at OBWI, who posted this fine piece from The Atlantic about writer Martin Amis, who died a few days ago.
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/11/the-amis-obsession/309110/?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email
The great humans of substance are dying off daily. We’re left with insipid, shallow masters of sideshow crapola.
Well, the former will at least miss the black shroud of death-loving fascist racist murderous conservatism now looming over the civilized world.
Thanks, noone. I found your comment when I came on here to post this extract from that piece, which I thought cleek (and maybe russell) would appreciate:
“In this state, it can be hazardous to read Martin Amis—to suffer the thrills of envy (I want it!), larceny (Can I steal it?), resentment (Bastard!), all leading where? Ah, you know where: into a writer’s dark night, the meat-locker chill of professional despair. The ego, inverted. I might as well give up. Pete Townshend and Eric Clapton, watching Jimi Hendrix at The Scotch of St James in London, were (according to Townshend) so harrowed with fear and wonder that they found themselves meekly holding hands. The apprentice writer reads Martin Amis, and whose hand can he hold but his own? “