From his new home base in Brooklyn, the British novelist and firebrand Martin Amis talks to David Wallace-Wells about sex, porn, rioting, the difference between London and New York, and the dwindling fortunes of postmodernist literature and American empire.
Let’s start with your new book, Lionel Asbo, and in particular with the subtitle of the new book, State of England, which I understand was originally the working title.
Yeah.
Is it unfair to read that subtitle literally?
My 12-year-old daughter said to me, “Enough with the subtitles, Daddy, for crying out loud.” Because they always seem to cloud the issue rather than clarify it. There used to be such a thing—almost a genre—called “state of England” novels, or “state of the nation” novels, which tend to be earnest explorations of various institutions with lots of civil servants and academics talking in indistinguishable voices about this or that. My novel is very far from being that. I don’t attach much importance to it. The subtitle is there for those who want it.
Let’s start with your new book, Lionel Asbo, and in particular with the subtitle of the new book, State of England, which I understand was originally the working title.
Yeah.
Is it unfair to read that subtitle literally?
My 12-year-old daughter said to me, “Enough with the subtitles, Daddy, for crying out loud.” Because they always seem to cloud the issue rather than clarify it. There used to be such a thing—almost a genre—called “state of England” novels, or “state of the nation” novels, which tend to be earnest explorations of various institutions with lots of civil servants and academics talking in indistinguishable voices about this or that. My novel is very far from being that. I don’t attach much importance to it. The subtitle is there for those who want it.
It seems to have riled up some people in England.
It doesn’t take much to do that. Several people, not just reviewers, took me to task for writing about what they called the working classes—something I’ve been doing for 40 years without it being challenged or even remarked. I thought that was contemptible—what do they want to do, ghettoize the working class as a subject? Can you only write about your own class? I’ve written about royalty and other classes. Am I not allowed to do that? As if you can’t have been to Oxford and talk in a poncey accent—that that therefore prohibits you from writing about these people I’ve always written about. It’s all so contemptible. People who go in search of self-righteousness wherever they can find it.
It doesn’t take much to do that. Several people, not just reviewers, took me to task for writing about what they called the working classes—something I’ve been doing for 40 years without it being challenged or even remarked. I thought that was contemptible—what do they want to do, ghettoize the working class as a subject? Can you only write about your own class? I’ve written about royalty and other classes. Am I not allowed to do that? As if you can’t have been to Oxford and talk in a poncey accent—that that therefore prohibits you from writing about these people I’ve always written about. It’s all so contemptible. People who go in search of self-righteousness wherever they can find it.
What do you think explains it?
Just touchiness—increased touchiness. I suppose I haven’t written about them for a while. And maybe I haven’t written a novel so completely about that class. But it’s sort of baffling and ridiculous and ill-intentioned—not just towards me, but towards the working classes. It’s not worth wondering where it comes from.
Read the full interview at Vulture
Just touchiness—increased touchiness. I suppose I haven’t written about them for a while. And maybe I haven’t written a novel so completely about that class. But it’s sort of baffling and ridiculous and ill-intentioned—not just towards me, but towards the working classes. It’s not worth wondering where it comes from.
Read the full interview at Vulture
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