My avoidance of Paradise Lost (and the rest of the works of the Foundation Year, for that matter) has made me a more prolific reader. Well, that and the fact that I am officially through every episode of Friday Night Lights ever filmed. It’s been a year of bliss watching Tim Riggins, but our time together has come to an end.
The Rachel Papers surpassed my high expectations. It was only my second Martin Amis novel, but he’s now in the running for my favourite writer. London Fields was my first. It was much more dense and dark. Unpleasant but fascinating. It was slow, because it was the type of book you had to digest in pieces. I slogged through it on vacation last summer in Kincardine, my pace oft noted by Little Mouse, who was blazing through Through Black Spruce at the time. Fluff by comparison. At the time, my friend noted she thought I had a lot on my mind. She was right. I was being haunted by the details of a wife-beating darts enthusiast who was up to no good.
The Rachel Papers was much easier. A funny and insightful comment on the allure of the unattainable and the inevitable crash of infatuation. Even better than the film, I dare say. I love that my son has the same haircut now as Martin Amis did in the ‘70s. They’re both super cool.
What next you may wonder? Certainly not that brick on my bedside table.