By Christian Viveros-Faun√©
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
This set piece dramatizes the differences between the two chums. Where Amis exalts literary genius (incarnated by Bellow) and believes "there are times when manners are more important than [political differences]," Hitchens values truth and justice over all elseincluding tact and the feelings of his best friend. You don't have to squint too hard to see the bonds between Hitchens and Amis. They both came of age in early-'70s London and worked together on The New Statesman, a then influential left-wing magazine. Britain's champagne socialists hadn't really shed their traditional disdain for pop culture yet; this was the last generation for whom Keats would still beat Dylan in a culture clash. For young guns like Chris and Mart, it must have been a befuddling moment. In The War Against Cliché, Amis writes of his early years as an assistant at the Times Literary Supplement: "Even then I sensed a discrepancy, as I joined an editorial conference . . . wearing shoulder-length hair, a flower shirt, and knee-high tricolored boots . . . but I always had about me my Edmund Wilsonor my William Empson."
Both men have retained their reputations as enfants terribles, probably perpetuated by their cruel-lipped, scowly poses in publicity photos. Looking at this essay collection, however, it's clear that Amis was always more considered and considerate than his angry young man aura suggests. With a title like The War Against Cliché, you expect Amis to sharpen his spiky prose on the soft underbellies of hapless authors. Yet that sneer has vanished along with his rotten teeth. War is peppered with small English cruelties, sure, and the occasional assassination (on Malcolm Lowry: "To make a real success of being an alcoholic . . . you need to be other things too: shifty, unfastidious, solipsistic, insecure, and indefatigable. Lowry was additionally equipped with an extra-small penis, which really seemed to help."). But this book also introduces us to a gentler side of Martin. "Enjoying being insulting is a youthful corruption of power," he writes in his introduction. "You lose your taste for it when you realize how hard people try, how much they mind, and how long they remember."
In some ways the book's aggressive-sounding title is aptAmis is a warrior when it comes to language, declaring a fatwa on incorrect usage and poorly placed commas. He takes down his beloved J.G. Ballard for sloppy repetition and Iris Murdoch for her "train-wreck adjectives," while attributing Elmore Leonard's brilliance to his use of the present participle, and delectating over James Joyce's chewy, "reader-nuking" prose.
Amis's short book reviews aren't the best showcase for deep thinking; many feel stunted and swollen with plot description. The patchwork of pieces doesn't have the coherence of say, James Wood's recent collection, The Broken Estate, but Amis's prose combines a liveliness and vulnerability that's rare in criticism. There are a handful of authors he reviews numerous times over the book's 29-year span, and watching his opinions fluctuate and coalesce over the years is fascinatinglike time-lapse criticism. When he actually has room to spread outin his poignant, personal piece on Philip Larkin (a friend of his dad, Kingsley Amis) or the essays on "great books" like Don Quixotehis arguments inject charm and energy into fatigued subject matter.
His literary values are surprisingly traditional for a former lit thug, though. Who namedrops Leavis anymore? Amis repeatedly bemoans the influence of ideology on the critics and creators of literature. "Most literary criticism tends to point beyond literature towards . . . marxism, or sociology, or philosophy, or semiotics," he complains in a review of Nabokov's lectures. "Nabokov points to the thing itself, the art itself." Amis also obsesses over the concept of talent until it becomes tedious: Novels only fail "when talent fails," "there is only one type of writingthat of talent," ad infinitum. Which sounds unarguable, except that the kind of people who go on about "genius" and complain about politicized readings (think Harold Bloom) tend to be cranky guardians of the canon. Somehow women and non-white writers rarely make it through the barricades. Give or take an Austen or Naipaul, The War Against Cliché is wall-to-wall white men: Its inadvertent argument is that talent is unequally distributed.
"Elitist" is a charge frequently hurled at Hitchens, too, but he mounts a hefty case for the defense in Letters to a Young Contrarian. The accusation "no longer has the power to sting me," he claims, explaining that since popular opinion is constantly manipulated by those in power, "one must therefore be willing to risk the charge of 'elitism' " in order to reveal truth to the duped masses. As far as Hitchens is concerned, there are slimier things to be than an elitista liar, for instance. Letters to a Young Contrarian is a short book based on Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, with Hitchens addressing an imaginary student protégé who seeks advice on standing up to power. As deeply steeped in the Western canon as Amis, Hitchens leans heavily on quotes from dead sages like Zola, Bertrand Russell, and George Orwell. His erudition is dazzling, but you have to wonder if this plethora of literary references would really inspire a young wannabe revolutionary today; lyrics by Kathleen Hanna, Rage Against the Machine's Zach de la Rocha, or Mos Def would probably be more effective.