London Fields, walking towards

Only one hundred or so pages into this and I’m wondering how I ever managed without Martin Amis. His sentences contain so much coiled energy that I’m rereading several passages immediately after completing them, just to relish the wordcraft. Earlier in the year, I attempted Lolita, but was underwhelmed by the narrative tricksiness and overwhelmed by Humbert’s cruelty. Nabokov has, as they might say, not a patch on Martin.

Here’s the story so far, and it’s a tangled one. Three characters, Keith, Guy and Nicola, are converging upon one another in what may be the fulfillment of Nicola’s premonitory powers. It may also be a burgeoning love triangle, though Keith is a nasty and at this point wouldn’t recognize an emotion if it bit him raw. Guy and Nicola have established a connection, but is it profit taking? And, if so, whose? All are being birddogged and chronicled by the writer, Sam, whose distance at this point is confined to approximately the thirty paces back of Nicola’s swinging hips, though he really wants to go to their “homes”, inside each head. Nicola’s the one I’m watching as well, not her hips, but something in her characterization that’s stirring and very rich. Could that be rain I’m hoping for this weekend? Otherwise, I’ll be mowing, a large, unevenly sodded yard, when I’d rather be

…trying to ignore the world situation. I am hoping it will go away. Not the world. The situation. I want time to get on with this little piece of harmless escapism. I want time to go to London Fields.

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