I had been a fan of Martin Amis’s work for many years—Time’s Arrow, The Information, etc.
His books were so funny, so smart. I suspect I was also under the sway of the idea of being
born into a literary family, as he was. And he had such nice hair.
In 2008 my wife Shawna and I went to New York for a writers’ conference, where he was giving one of the featured readings. I’m not a fanboy, and have rarely stood in line to get a book signed. But for Amis I made an exception, and brought my hardcover first edition of London Fields. Shawna—another Amis fan—and I attended the reading, and waited in the long line. It was late afternoon and Amis, who clearly had made it part of his reading agreement, was staying hydrated with a bottle of white wine. When we reached his table I mentioned to him that his friend Saul Bellow’s summer house was on the road we lived on in Vermont, and that the next time he came to see Bellow he should ring us up. I knew it was highly unlikely he would so so, and the look on his face confirmed my suspicion.
In those days, the conference had VIP parties that started around 10 at night, and that night’s was in the penthouse suite of the Midtown Hilton. I doubt they called it a suite; it took up most of the top two stories of the hotel, and was accessible only by its own elevator. Back then I smoked, mostly when I’d had more than a couple drinks, and that night I was desperate for a cigarette. I had a pack but there was no place to light up. The chairman of the conference’s board was angrily going from room to room and taking the ashtrays away. It was a no-smoking hotel, but obviously the Hilton family made exceptions for the guests who could afford these digs.
As I wandered from room to room looking for either a balcony or a way onto the roof to smoke, I smelled burning tobacco. I entered what appeared to be the master bedroom, and there was Amis, smoking and holding court with five or six writers. As I approached, I realized they were talking about pot. One of the women was telling him—as if he didn’t know—that people in the US were now growing hybrid strains of cannabis that were very powerful. But she added that she had tried some and it had had no effect. I walked into their little circle and said “Well, you haven’t tried mine.” Pot was still illegal then, and though writers are arguably a wilder bunch than those in other fields, this conference was for writers in academia. Talking about drug use among writer friends is normal, but I didn’t know any of these people. Unlike everyone in the circle except Amis, I wasn’t in academia. No one could fire me. The circle grew quiet. Amis pulled me aside and said “Let’s get together later.”
Later turned about to be five minutes. The circle dissolved, I found my wife in another room, and the three of us went a few floors down to our room, where Amis proceeded to smoke an incredible amount of marijuana. Until his writing became more political, Amis was one of the funniest writers around, and I stupidly hoped he would be a hilarious smoking companion. I could not have been more wrong. He talked about politics in the Middle East, genital mutilation in Africa, women’s rights in Pakistan. He didn’t ask for our thoughts on any of these subjects. He was not hilarious.
An hour or so later, Amis pointed out that the VIP party was in part in his honor, and that he’d better get back. Like many hotels in cities, the windows in the Hilton wouldn’t open. It was a small room. Not only were all three of us stoned, we reeked of pot. But back we went. The first person we saw on entering was Cynthia Ozick. Amis hugged her, they sat down, and seemed to resume a conversation they’d been having for many years.
Toss up between The Information, London Fields & Time's Arrow (totally different, not light reading). It's a been a while since I read the early stuff like Success, Other People, Money etc. All sort of blurs together in my recollection.
I had been a fan of Martin Amis’s work for many years—Time’s Arrow, The Information, etc.
His books were so funny, so smart. I suspect I was also under the sway of the idea of being
born into a literary family, as he was. And he had such nice hair.
In 2008 my wife Shawna and I went to New York for a writers’ conference, where he was giving one of the featured readings. I’m not a fanboy, and have rarely stood in line to get a book signed. But for Amis I made an exception, and brought my hardcover first edition of London Fields. Shawna—another Amis fan—and I attended the reading, and waited in the long line. It was late afternoon and Amis, who clearly had made it part of his reading agreement, was staying hydrated with a bottle of white wine. When we reached his table I mentioned to him that his friend Saul Bellow’s summer house was on the road we lived on in Vermont, and that the next time he came to see Bellow he should ring us up. I knew it was highly unlikely he would so so, and the look on his face confirmed my suspicion.
In those days, the conference had VIP parties that started around 10 at night, and that night’s was in the penthouse suite of the Midtown Hilton. I doubt they called it a suite; it took up most of the top two stories of the hotel, and was accessible only by its own elevator. Back then I smoked, mostly when I’d had more than a couple drinks, and that night I was desperate for a cigarette. I had a pack but there was no place to light up. The chairman of the conference’s board was angrily going from room to room and taking the ashtrays away. It was a no-smoking hotel, but obviously the Hilton family made exceptions for the guests who could afford these digs.
As I wandered from room to room looking for either a balcony or a way onto the roof to smoke, I smelled burning tobacco. I entered what appeared to be the master bedroom, and there was Amis, smoking and holding court with five or six writers. As I approached, I realized they were talking about pot. One of the women was telling him—as if he didn’t know—that people in the US were now growing hybrid strains of cannabis that were very powerful. But she added that she had tried some and it had had no effect. I walked into their little circle and said “Well, you haven’t tried mine.” Pot was still illegal then, and though writers are arguably a wilder bunch than those in other fields, this conference was for writers in academia. Talking about drug use among writer friends is normal, but I didn’t know any of these people. Unlike everyone in the circle except Amis, I wasn’t in academia. No one could fire me. The circle grew quiet. Amis pulled me aside and said “Let’s get together later.”
Later turned about to be five minutes. The circle dissolved, I found my wife in another room, and the three of us went a few floors down to our room, where Amis proceeded to smoke an incredible amount of marijuana. Until his writing became more political, Amis was one of the funniest writers around, and I stupidly hoped he would be a hilarious smoking companion. I could not have been more wrong. He talked about politics in the Middle East, genital mutilation in Africa, women’s rights in Pakistan. He didn’t ask for our thoughts on any of these subjects. He was not hilarious.
An hour or so later, Amis pointed out that the VIP party was in part in his honor, and that he’d better get back. Like many hotels in cities, the windows in the Hilton wouldn’t open. It was a small room. Not only were all three of us stoned, we reeked of pot. But back we went. The first person we saw on entering was Cynthia Ozick. Amis hugged her, they sat down, and seemed to resume a conversation they’d been having for many years.
Wyn, what a great story. So vivid. Can see it all.
I so relate: when I'm writing, all problems feel solvable. Good luck with your deadline!
As an Amis superfan for decades, great stuff, Steve.
Thanks, Maurice! What's your favorite MA book?
Toss up between The Information, London Fields & Time's Arrow (totally different, not light reading). It's a been a while since I read the early stuff like Success, Other People, Money etc. All sort of blurs together in my recollection.