Money, Money, Money. A Novel by Martin Amis

Money is the fantastically intricate and brutally inclusive study of a very, very extravagant consumer, viz. one Mr. John Self. This roguish protagonist dedicates himself body and soul to the ideal of the dissolute modern hedonist, leaves a tremendous trail of pornography, drugs, and violence in his wake, and yet still possesses enough vim to make the reader cry for laughing. Aspiring ascetics and disapproving Aristotleans would be very well advised to stay away from Money and the radically (radically) epicurean John Self, on pain of moralistic mortification; this is no mild adventure. With Money, Martin Amis has crafted a spectacular and shameless ‘psychodrama’ that penetrates right to the core of an utterly perverse and inexplicably lovable personality. The journey to that center is gritty shitty, masterfully layered, and extraordinarily amusing.

The cleverly charming narrative wraps itself around the misadventures of Mr. Self as he meanders and rampages in the inner city urban playgrounds of London and New York. What is distinctive about Mr. Self, aside from his inane physical afflictions and chronic alcholism, is the astounding way he handles his cash. Hence, the title of the book, and the centrifugal force that binds the plot together. Money primarily concerns itself with the diverse channels through which currency can be exchanged for pleasures, favours, and entire lifestyles. In the process of this indefinite spending spree, John encounters new, old, and enigmatic friends, works his way through a troublesome pornography production, and wrestles with personal and psychological problems. All this, however, falls into a progression that is neither linear nor straightforward, with the (good) result being that at least a third of the novel is dedicated to digressions and episodes. The plot of the text is a fairly simple chronicle of a (busy) period in a life; but the embellishments do more than enough to flesh out the characters and settings, and further provide the basis for much of the raw and overwhelming humour that is so indispensable to the book’s success.

Wry, dry, and hysterical wit is an ingredient Money is certainly not lacking. At times I absolutely exploded from laughter, with my screams echoing from the walls; at other times I imploded instead. The comic turns are beautifully crafted, declining both mindless slapstick and abstruse sophistication, and settling instead for a refreshing dose of grey realism. Further, this unreserved down-to-earth humour neatly partners the pragmatic and vernacular tone. Money, thank goodness, is as unpretentious as plain steamed rice, and suffers not a jot from this general lack of euphemism or design.

To be sure, the colloquial language does nothing to compromise the complexity of Amis’ ideas. Far from it; the slanging excellence and memorably alternative expressions enhance the ingenious clash of scenes and themes. Money will have you swallowing a whole series of paradoxes in a savagely modern lexicon; I laughed uproariously at rape, sympathized excessively with a thoroughly debauched and uncaring protagonist, and adoringly savoured the most callous and indiscreet kinds of conversation. Though deceptively clothed in a quality of prose that seems satisfying at best (and monotonous at worst), Money holds in its depths immense quantities of charm, thought, pathos, and, let us admit it, modern literary genius.

With that said, then, what could halt a prospective reader like yourself? A difficult question, and a difficult answer. The problem, at times unavoidable and at other times irrelevant, is that Money seems to lack a significant point or purpose. That is, the underlying point, message, or meaning of the novel is elusive and trying to grasp. Elsewhere on this site Ted has quoted a wise remark that can serve as an apt analogy: ‘Love life, and not the meaning of it.’ It may similarly be the case that with Money, one has to love the book, and not the meaning of it. And though at times this lack of a ‘deeper meaning’ (to use a dreadful and blunt expression) is positively uplifting, in the long term the upshot is that Money lacks the resonance with ageless and universal themes that marks all truly ‘great’ or ‘classic’ literature. (I use the quotation marks deliberately because I mistrust these designators; I use the designators because they best convey my meaning.) To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t an intrinsic moral lesson, a telling social or historical comment, or an intelligent and coherent argument, wrapped beneath the spirals of this seductive and engaging tale; and this subtextual void is often not a little disturbing. If I may stretch myself slightly; Money is all skin, no spine, an exterior without an interior. A difficult answer, I say, because this so-called flaw may in fact leap across the chasm of taste and be defended as the novel’s essential virtue, at least by some; aesthetes seeking entertainment (and by no means is this meant pejoratively) will surely entertain the dense, sensual, and vivacious prose, unburdened by pretentious ‘messages’. As for myself, however, and like-minded readers desiring something a little more from their fiction (a personal edification or spiritual growth, perhaps?), Money’s stubborn reluctance to yield up some nourishing gravity and dimenson comes as an unfortunate blemish.

This criticism, however, is very far from potent enough to justify a denunciation of Money. Psychotically funny, endlessly cool, and with enough plot weaving to keep you enthralled for weeks, Money is damn good fiction, from a talented innovator – make no mistake. Suffused with a heady and endearing tone that is a joyous reproof of facile nihilism and cynicism (common enough with such a topic), the novel offers a clear and intriguing glimpse of what it means to be a glamorous modern hedonist, in a style that is as down-to-earth as the mantle. Money, to be short, is some good, funny, and slightly fucked up shit. Read it. 

Arms and the Man by Bernard Shaw

Arms and the Man is a play that self-consciously intends to explode the abstract images and ideals of common romanticism. Pity, then, that at best the tale only manages to defuse these inherently fragile myths, and relegates them to entertainment, rather than derision or scorn. Undoubtedly, the drama’s impact was more visible and unconventional in its original habitat of fin-de-siècle Victorian England, and the influence the work exerted over subsequent texts should probably not be underestimated. Yet in spite of its undeniable wit, blunt precision, and skilful dramatic design, Arms and the Man samples to this modern reader more like a pleasant and light chocolate cream than a provocative and memorable disenchantment. Far from eliciting excessive sympathy for its pragmatism, the satire is perhaps the (energetic) first in a series of literary sighs that harp upon themes uncomfortably close to the border of cynicism. Not to say that cynicism is a prohibited aesthetic territority, for it obviously isn’t; only, it may be the case that that particular soil has been recently overworked. So, as thrilling as the text might have been upon publication, its incessant concern with demystification and downsizing is in a sense tiresome to modern readers.

Assuredly, though, this conjectured fatigue is a fairly macroscopic and thematic grievance. Shaw’s invention is not in the least tiresome when it comes to the enactment of his scenes or the craft of his dialogue. The compact size of the cast and the dexterous use of dramatic space and symbol ensure that the episodes are positive delights, complemented by telling and likeable personalities. Neither can Shaw’s dialogue be justly slighted. Infused with a taseful mix of hyperbole, humour, and pure theatrical vitality, the individual words and phrases are the essential ingredients that animate the story and weight it with both sobriety and absurdity. It is the dialogue of Arms and the Man, more than its significant thematic point or definite unconvention, that makes the play a valuable and stimulating read.

Unfortunately, however, it is doubly the dialogue that destorys a portion of the play’s potential. Its nimble pace renders the exposition of the characters unsatisfyingly incomplete at times, and discourages the release of an especially developed and thoughtful speech. Wit and ingenuity are spread diffusely throughout the text, in a manner that one might even call egalitarian; and consequently the play lacks a particulary distinct, incisive, or climatic address. Instead, the confused convergence of Act III produces an abrupt conclusion that appears to be neither here nor there, and accordingly the reader is left with an uncertain and helpless taste in his mouth as Shaw triumphantly concludes. To be sure, the greatest flaw of Arms and the Man is the fact that its initial underlying convictions are never channelled into clear and focused conceptions; and so the play withers, consumed by its own energy, before it can articulate or establish an effective resolution.

These structural flaws, though, are again somewhat macroscopic. The effervescent and engaging dialogue for the most part compensates for the effete overall direction, and only the most distant and detached of critics would fail to be seduced by Shaw’s ecstatic lines. So, despite its feeble attempt at iconoclasm, Arms and the Man remains an invigorating and sharp read. I think the best approximation to the truth and the fairest judgement would be to say that there are many books that deserve to be read before Arms and the Man, and just as many that deserve to be read afterwards.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Second Opinion

Contrary, perhaps, to expectations aroused by the historical and political baggage of the novel, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich offers neither a stimulating political discourse nor an especially historical awareness. There is a distinct lack of political edification or argumentation, and the historical span of the sketch unequivocally excludes the wider (and interesting) historical narrative of the period, being indeed limited to a single day. For a sketch that deals with the sensitive subject of Soviet labour camps, this gap is curious and conspicuous, although I think that there is an obvious and laudable explanation. The conscious omission simply makes Solzehenitsyn’s prose that much more captivating, capacious, and reflective. This fragment extracted from the daily toils of a typical zek (Russian slang for prisoner) enchants not because it intellectually englightens or attacks, but rather because it exposes, like a meticulous impassive lens, the fasincating mode of human nature imprisoned. Psychology and aesthetics, and not history and politics; Stoicism, intersubjectivity, mental exhausation and transformation, in compliment to the austere landscape and the vivid treatment of bodies; these themes and motifs dominate the composition and render any explicit inclusion of Stalin or the Cold War quite definitely unnecessary.

The upshot of the aforementioned elision, then, is a novel abundant in incisive images, commanding anecdotes, psychological maxims, and playful personalities and scenes. The fleeting impressions and succint phrases together generate a collection of captivating fragments that mirror the concept of the novel itself. (The work embodies but one day, an indiscriminate fragment, of the stretch of incarceration.) True, the discrete and colourful episodes of the narrative allow little space for effective continuity or thematic unity; but they do permit Solzhenitsyn to touch upon several disparate elements of Shukov’s (Denisovich’s moniker) experience. To phrase it more comfortably, the quick and flowing narrative style opens access to an intriguing diversity of emotions, characters, and events. This refusal to mould the story into a bleak and tedious progressum (N.B. — not actually a word) of misery constitutes Solzhenitsyn’s greatest victory in this work. Here even misery comes in different shades. It is not the implied uniformity of Shukov’s days that comes to light in the novel; rather, the startling subtleties, the small successes, and the ambivalent attitudes invest the setting with vitality and colour. Difference and identity, pleasure and disgust, corporeality and spirituality, unity and egoism; these dualistic undertones and undercurrents enrich the winter landscape and end by successfully rendering prison a truly interesting place. (Whether Solzenhitsyn is here absolutely faithful to his historical experience is an interesting question.) The true value of this work is not its historical veracity, political potential, or literary dexterity, but instead its charming, tortuous, brutal, and unreserved illumination of life and men in prison. It is hardly necessary to see the account as a falsification or reproduction of the labour camp; but I suspect on balance that the reality is embellished and invigorated in Solzhenitsyn’s easy prose.

This is not to say that the work comes without flaws. The frugal economy of the phrasing and the abruptness of certain scenes (see Alyosha’s incongruous outburst towards the end) at times renders the text just shy of a satisfying development. Sometimes, too, Shukov’s wry, sagacious observations ring of repetition and drive the same point home too often. Finally, the constant austerity and frankness of the style may seem rudely unaesthetic to some, and hardly worth a Nobel prize; and though I think this objection is somewhat reductive and positivist, I can (at a stretch) sympathize with the charge of formal monotony.

The final verdict, though, is hardly negative. As a deliberate and nuanced sketch, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich deserves genuine praise. Grimly gripping, comfortably accessible, and admittedly entertaining, the story need not plunge the reader into waves of commiseration and despair, and will probably instead refine an appreciation of human subtlety and complexity, whilst doubly offering an instructive glimpse into (altered) history.