Martin Amis' latest novel was released in the context of lengthy media hassles involving A.S. Byatt, expensive dental work, and agent wars akin to those in the Larry Sanders Show. As such, it was often reviewed nastily. And it must be said that there is plenty to complain about- dead-end subplots, misogyny, self-plagarization. But does this mean the book should not be read? Not on your life.
It contains some of the funniest prose you will ever read, and its central satrical point is gratifyingly well realized.
The two main characters represent two dismaying poles of modern literature. The protagonist, Richard Tull, is a writer of novels that are ambitious, pretentious, and undreadble; his antagonist, and putative best friend, is Gwyn Barry, who writes unpretentious, "Celestine Prophecy"-type hackwork that is unreadable by any intelligent standard but is inexplicably loved by millions. Tull's ever- intensfying jealously is the core of the novel, and gives Amis a starting point to lauch some blisteringly funny satric missiles. The section dealing with Tull's book toor, in particular, is utterly masterful.
What goes on besides this is not partcularly interesting, however. A pornography-obsessed thug wanders in from London Fields to bring the novel to a screeching halt, presumably to make by now banal points about the decay-of-modern-society that Amis has made much more effectively elsewhere. And the novel's female characters are, to put it charitably, less than fully realized.
Nonetheless, the novel's overall strength makes it a rewarding experience, replete with much scaborous humor and some geniune insight as well