Monday
The death of Martin Amis at the weekend triggers a slew of coverage more affectionate than can be imagined for that of many other writers. In America, the obituaries are sober, respectful. In Britain, where the news is much bigger, the pitch is slightly different, not just fond but shocked – hard to imagine this country’s literary life without some kind of Amis at the helm – and also, to my eye, slightly stricken. For many years, Amis-baiting was a minor national pastime and it seemed to me on Monday that along with the sadness was a detectable unease, the sick feeling of: “Oh god we didn’t mean it and now it’s too late.”
