Money: A Suicide Note by Martin Amis
Yesterday afternoon I fell over in the bath and broke a pint of scotch. Later, I had a hooker in off the street. Nothing happened. She couldn’t have been nicer. Do you know why? Because she thought I might be going to murder her, that’s why. This morning, as I finally aborted a catastrophic, neck-searing handjob, the telephone rang. It was Cleopatra magazine, asking me to be Bachelor of the Month. Success has not changed me. I’m what I always was.
As my English high school teacher once said, and I tried to apply to Catch-22: you can become literature if you are good enough or funny enough (or both, I suppose). Money: A Suicide Note is funny enough. It’s freaking hilarious, actually. But it’s not amazing. It takes way too long to get to the end, just like the main character, and is really much more more about drinking than money. Alcoholism: A Suicide Note definitely fits. But it’s 30 years old and barely shows its age – now that’s star power that the celebrities in this book would kill for.
I think I would have recommended this to my friend Ryan.
Refreshed by a brief blackout, I got to my feet and went next door.
“Yeah,” I said, and started smoking another cigarette. Unless I specifically inform you otherwise, I’m always smoking another cigarette.
While fighting, you really want to make it exquisitely clear to your opponent that he is doing the losing.
A definitive account of how the current world of funny money slavery looks in Reagan’s America and Thatcher’s Britain: authentically corrupt, seriously vulgar, intensely twentieth-century. It’s not nice, but it’s terribly, terminally funny: laughter in the dark, if ever I heard it.