The Belligerati

Buried in Martin Amis's memoir, Experience, is an anecdote about his old friend Christopher Hitchens. They've driven all the way to Vermont to visit Saul Bellow, Amis's hero, but the evening goes terribly wrong when the dinner conversation turns toward Israel. After 90 minutes of Hitchens's "cerebral stampede"—a tirade on the crimes of Zionism directed at one of America's Great Jews—"a silence slowly elongated itself over the dinner table. Christopher, utterly sober but with his eyes lowered, was crushing in his hands an empty packet of Benson & Hedges. The Bellows, too, had their gazes downcast. I sat with my head in my palms, staring at the aftermath of the dinner. . . . My right foot was injured because I had kicked the shins of the Hitch so much with it."

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 else—including 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 Wilson—or 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 apt—Amis 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 fascinating—like time-lapse criticism. When he actually has room to spread out—in his poignant, personal piece on Philip Larkin (a friend of his dad, Kingsley Amis) or the essays on "great books" like Don Quixote—his 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 writing—that 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.