James Wolcott, "The Job That Failed," (Book Review) in The New Republic, November 8, 2012, at p. 42.
Will Self, "Martin Amis: The Misinformation," in Junk Mail (New York: Grove/Atlantic, 2006), p. 41.
Dwight Garner, "The Life of a Writer Reviewed," in The New York Times, December 5, 2012, at p. C1. Review of a biography of Martin Amis is marred by grammatical and logical errors: " ... Richard Bradford, with whom he cooperated (though [sic.] did not formally authorize), has achieved a book ..." Manohla?
Robert Verbruggen, "Grievance Class," in National Review, October 29, 2012, at p. 47. Writer who complains about the logic and grammar in the work of a student focusing on African-American issues says: "The problem with identity studies is not that gender, sexuality, race, and ethnicity are not important." (emphasis added!) Double negative, Manohla? Cornel West's interest in "Prophetic Christianity" does not mean that Professor West claims to be a prophet.
Public criticisms of U.S. media have never been greater or more intense, nor (it must be said) so utterly ignored by journalists who are fond of scrutinizing the motives and parsing the words of others in public life.
Politicians are fair game for the media; deranged and fallen actresses and fashion models may be attacked; billionaires sporting orange hair pieces are worthy targets for condescension among trendy journalists -- whereas journalists themselves are beyond reproach in their own eyes.
Aside from the phone hacking scandal in Britain and the usual craven, soft-porn page 6 salivating indulged in by the Murdoch press, there is (usually) greater honesty in the UK about the gadfly function of what should be -- but often isn't -- a "free and independent" press in democratic societies.
Journalists, please feel free to go after the fat cats and powerful politicians, by all means, but not idealistic young activists struggling for a better world. Don't use serious works of literature as an excuse for indulging in political rhetoric, especially if you have not read the books you review.
American journalism has become paid political advertising, often for Republicans (TNR?) whose wealth purchases loyal servants among grovelling members of the media. Even monetary advantages -- Republicans' greater ability to provide "free stuff" to their loyalists (like Mr. O'Reilly?) -- did not help the unpleasant Mr. Romney. It is obvious to all of us in the audience that self-love is the name of the game in Fleet Street and Union Square, among media glitterati.
A sample of self-love is the well-written (credit where credit is due) diatribe by James Wolcott (James Wood?) doing a bad Martin Amis impersonation in The New Republic. I am aware of Alexander Wolcott (terrific!) and of Mr. James Wolcott's typical prose, but I doubt that this review was written entirely by James Wolcott.
In what purports to be a book review in The New Republic we are treated to a caricature of the "bad boy" Martin Amis of hallowed legend, as described in the gutter press of the seventies by ... well, "Martin Amis." ("Images and Death.")
Mr. Wolcott has seen through it all. He is weary of life, bored with English literature, politics, philosophy. He is "above" Western civilization; he is past William Shakespeare; and no doubt dismissive of what Richard Posner -- a Federal Circuit Court Judge -- has called, "the worship of the American Constitution." ("What is it like to be plagiarized?" and "'Brideshead Revisited': A Movie Review.")
Pass me the Perrier bottled water and an apricot. I detect Mr. Wolcott's Upper West Side drawl and nasal twang in his prose. I observe a man wearing a comfortable old sweater, holding his pipe in his left hand, in well-worn chinos, leather loafers (worn without socks), removing his tortoiseshell glasses and then shaking his head in sighing disapproval of Mr. Amis and other upstarts (like me) who dare to believe anything in a nihilistic age. ("Nihilists in Disneyworld" and "Whatever.")
Why care about the fate of the planet or that America -- certainly New Jersey -- is governed by child molesters? No reason. Quoting D.H. Lawrence, Mr. Wolcott dismisses all of British civilization in a paragraph:
" -- Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable sodding rotters, the flaming sods, the sniveling, dribbling, dithering palsied pulse-less lot [David Cameron?] that make up England today --" (p. 42.)
The novel that has so offended Mr. Wolcott is Lionel Asbo: State of England (New York & London: Knopf, 2012). Mr. Wolcott's effusion will leave readers uninformed about whether this book is worth reading (yes, it is) or important (too soon to tell). The impression conveyed to the reader is that the reviewer could easily write a better novel any time he wishes.
This leads to the supposition that the reviewer's literary voice -- at least in this article -- is the creation of Martin Amis in a wicked and satirical mood that is intended to illustrate Mr. Amis' criticisms of literary journalists on both sides of the Atlantic. Shame on you, Martin, for your naughty ways:
"Amis was never the sort of cozy writer who could settle into a plummy mellow maturity -- as in Time's Arrow and The Information, his mature voice bears the mortal freight of history's horrors and of personal extinction -- and as he keeps sharp watch on the chipping away of body and mind by aging's cruel elves, going full curmudgeon isn't really an option." (p. 44.)
So Martin has gone in for "sportive tricks," eh? I also miss the Hitch, Martin. I worry about "Martin Amis." (Yes, he is a genius child.) I admire Hollinghurst, Byatt, Zadie Smith, Waters, Barnes, McEwan, Rushdie as well as that Irish imp, John Banville, who will never equal Benjamin Black. ("Playing Snookers With Martin Amis" and "Lord Malquist and Mr. Moon.")
I expect that residents of the British isles will continue to kick ass in literature. Few Americans will keep up with them. Keep your eyes on Jonathan Franzen. I will continue to read, Martin. I expect and hope that you will continue to write.
Try harder next time, Mr. Wolcott.
