POWER: “Experience” seems largely a book about powerful men–Kingsley Amis in particular.
AMIS: Of course we were always father and son, but we also had a literary friendship. I date that from a day in 1966, when I’d just started reading properly, and I said, “Come upstairs and see my books.” And grumbling a bit, because it was three floors up, he came, and there were my Graham Greenes and my Conrads and so on. And we started to talk about Greene or whoever, and I thought, “This is the beginning of something.” But he didn’t try to form my mind, which was partly laziness, but also partly instinct.
He must have done something right, because here I am. It’s almost traditional–or at least very common–for a writer’s son to produce at least one book, and then they peter out, I think largely because they’ve made their point. And their point is impress Dad, emulate Dad. But mine wasn’t. Mine was to be a writer, long-haul. He didn’t have much to do with it.
Why do you think you get up so many people’s noses?
The only explanation that works is that it’s Kingsley. He was born in 1922, and it’s as if I was born in 1922, and am still only 50. There’s always been Amises around since 1954. Some people find that’s too long. The Amises have overstayed their welcome.
And of course, it makes people think that I came equipped with a full set of writing genes… as though I recline in a hammock and take dictation from heaven. I think it’s fair to say I’ve had an incredibly lucky life. And it was easy for me to begin with, but I would have gone on even if it had been hard. And maybe in my younger years I was arrogant, and I liked to stir [the media] up a bit.
How’s your relationship with the media today?
Some people thought I was living in America [and] said, “Had you been pushed out by what they write about you in the media?” No–you think I’m going to stack all my books into a tea chest because of what they write about me in the papers? It never affected me that much, except at critical points, when it seemed my free will was compromised. But otherwise I didn’t take it very personally. And the reason for that is again Kingsley. As my consciousness dawned, I noticed that my father was often attacked in the papers. And when my parents broke up, I noticed it was reported in the papers. My elder daughter, who is 3, she’s been in the papers. And I think she thinks that everyone’s in the papers. Now, if you think that at any time in your life, it renders it banal. Because of my father, I do know that it’s something to be kept in proportion. He provided me with a thick skin.
After your father died, Saul Bellow told you that “you’re no longer a kid.” How important is not being a kid in writing “Experience”?
Well, what’s important is my father dying. Whatever youth I’d had was all used up in those last few years of his life. I definitely feel that the kid stuff has got to stop, the “Bad Boy of English Letters.” I mean, the time has come. It’s getting embarrassing.
The opening of your novel “Money” has a quintessential Englishman-in-America scene. What is your relationship now with America?
Four of my five children are half-American. My mother lived in America for many years, and I lived in America as a child for a year. It’s my second home, and it may in the future be my first home. The reason I’m attracted to America is the stimulus. America probably won’t like to hear this, but it is not as evolved as England. England has evolved into a modern efficiency state. It’s more like Switzerland than the England I used to know, with its race riots and militant trade unionism. As Christopher Hitchens said, all the piss and vinegar has gone out of it over here. And America’s full of conflict, convulsions and extremes. And those are the things that stimulate me.
Have you been able to explain to Americans the British media’s obsession with your teeth?
No, they don’t understand it. An American, if they have a problem, they deal with it. But here, there’s a tradition of living with your disabilities. There was a strong vein of anti-Americanism: [I had an] American agent, American wife, American dentist. And the feeling here was, “We’ve got enough pliers and jackhammers to deal with you, so there’s no need for you to go to America.” As you settle down in the [dentist’s] chair, you think, “I don’t deserve this.”
