I’ve been reading Martin Amis’ Night Train.
Nicola has been telling me about this book for years, and it always ended up in the well, maybe someday shelf in my brain. Until last week, when I picked it at random from its actual shelf in my office and read the first two paragraphs:
I am a police. That may sound like an unusual statement — or an unusual construction. But it’s a parlance we have. Among ourselves, we would never say I am a policeman or I am a policewoman or I am a police officer. We would just say I am a police. I am a police. I am a police and my name is Detective Mike Hoolihan. And I am a woman, also.
What I am setting out here is an account of the worst case I have ever handled. The worst case — for me, that is. When you’re a police, “worst” is an elastic concept. You can’t really get a fix on “worst.” The boundaries are pushed out every other day. “Worst?” we’ll ask. “There no such thing as worst.” But for Detective Mike Hoolihan, this was the worst case.
— Night Train by Martin Amis
And now I’ve read it and am kicking myself for waiting so long. Kick, kick, kick.
Some people really hated this book and did some kicking (of it, and Amis) in print reviews when it came out in 1997. They said it didn’t capture the American voice. They dismissed it as a faulty police procedural. They called it clumsy noir. They said it was pretentious.
And you know what? I’ll betcha dollars to donuts that most of those folks had never read a speculative fiction book (excepting possibly Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, which they would doubtless have characterized as literary fiction in a bold futuristic setting and besides, Peggy Atwood’s a genius!). Well, I’ve read a ton of speculative fiction, and no, Night Train isn’t spec fic: it’s her fascinating sister, slipstream. It’s a literary psychological study that has paused to shrug into a noir coat and put on a crooked smile just before delivering that first fast punch to your brain.
I get so tired of the precious twee writing that passes for literary fiction most of the time, the kind that essentially points neon fingers at itself: My writer is such a fabulous writer, look how pretty she made me! Pretty and empty. Pretty much all about nothing at all. This is my beef with many of the major players; they are, to use one of Nicola’s favorite Americanisms, all hat and no cattle. But the ones who aren’t, the ones who bring home the goods — well, what difference does it make what kind of package those goods come wrapped in? A sweaty wife-beater stained with gun oil, a bloody startrooper uniform or clothes that look just like yours. What difference does it make?
How much more fun is it to see a really good writer doing the literary equivalent of cross-dressing? Dipping out of whatever genre bucket he wants to get the job done. Breaking the rules in the ways that only the best can do successfully. And oh, the energy and biting-on-tinfoil exuberance of this book, right up to the end, which ending is devastating, by the way. Socked me right between the eyes.
It’s not a book for anyone looking to spend a cheerful hour. But it’s a great book, a compelling story, a fierce distinctive sad human character, and an energy that burns. I really liked it.
Okay, you convinced me. I’ll go check it out and read it. Then we’ll see. Then we’ll discuss it. By the way, this is a pretty good rant on “literature”.
It’s a damn good rant. Makes me want to read that book despite the devastation. And, “all hat and no cattle” — never heard that one. I like it.
Jennifer, “all hat and no cattle” comes from a satirical country song. Unfortunately, I can’t remember who sings it right now. It refers to drugstore cowboys, another wondeful put down.
Barbara, I think you’re thinking of “All Hat, No Cattle” from Trace Adkins’ 1999 album, “More…,” but it’s older than that, and goes back to at least 1980 and Patricia Calvert’s “The Snowbird,” a YA book in which, “Following the murder of her parents, Willanna faces an uncertain future as she and her younger brother move from Tennessee in 1883 to the Dakota Territory where she trains her first horse.” I’m guessing it’s still older than that, since it hardly seems a prominent enough piece to have invented and spread such a wonderful phrase.
But the real question is: why did I just spend ten minutes figuring that out at 3 AM eastern? I’m sure there was a reason.
I’ve ‘Night Train’ on my shelf as well and have overlooked it perhaps for the same reasons as Kelley. Oftentimes Amis does make me roll my eyes because he is pretentious but that doesn’t mean he’s not able to make us think with his particular style of storytelling. Reviewers and the like are often quick to voice negativity when a novel doesn’t suit them or it doesn’t measure up to what’s expected. I do so love Kelley and how she embraces the good and how she is willing to give works a second glance when they don’t fit genre. I hope when it is my time for review, she’s in my corner.
Adrian, thanks for the 3 a.m. research. You see a clue, you want to find an answer. I appreciate that in a person. I grew up with drugstore cowboys, so I loved the phrase all the more.
Kelley, I said I would read it and I have, though not without fear and trembling. When I found out it was about a suicide, I hesitated, because my dad killed himself when I was 21. Then I went ahead and read it , like I did everything I could lay my hands on after my dad’s death. Mike’s reactions are absolutely characteristic of the survivors of a suicide. “She would have loved us if only we were good enough.” That way lies madness. We only think a man can’t imagine what a woman feels and vice versa because we are still so fucked up about gender anyway. “Ff you prick us, do we not bleed….” I happen to agree with you. It’s a dynamite book.
If you don’t want to respond or can’t think how best to respond, don’t worry about it. It took me 20 years to get over being angry at my dad for leaving that way. I have grieved his death and, I think, understood him. Thanks for giving me a place to talk about it.
I’m so sorry, Barbara, I’ve really kept you waiting.
There is suicide in my family too, although not death — the family member in question died in the ER and then returned to life a couple of minutes later. By that time, we’d already been told of the death in the waiting room, right before the nurse came yelling for the doctor to come back.
But I still had many survivor reactions, complicated by the actual survival of the person in question: I got protective, I got angry, I was very confused about my own “responsibility,” if any (I was 13 and the person in question was adult) and what I should do. And of course the family went through an enormous, wrenching adjustment and eventually things fell apart.
That’s about all I’m going to say about the details, since I want to respect the privacy of the person in question. But yes, I was surprised to find that the book was about suicide, and it made me that much more curious to read it, to follow that path that I never actually had to take. I was lucky not to lose my person. I’m really sorry that you lost yours.
Thank you. I didn’t want to nag, and I felt like I had sort of unloaded on you. No-one knows how to respond when the subject of suicide comes up, including me. So anyway, many thanks.
I completely agree with what Kelley has said about this book, “But itâs a great book, a compelling story, a fierce distinctive sad human character, and an energy that burns.”
Barbara, I’m not sure what else to tell you.
There’s this line from the book that kind of sums it all up for me. And when I read it, I thought, “Fuck. Yeah, so do I:
“`Here’s what happened. A woman fell out of a clear blue sky.
Yes. Well. I know all about those clear blue skies.”
My mother died when I was 11. It was not suicide exactly, but a year or so after her death, someone told me that it was and that the whole town thought so. It was believable to me, and my family had told me very little. When I was in my early 20’s I did some research that indicated it was as accident. Now I think of it as an accidental suicide sorta. A result of the way she lived her life – hooked on Seconal and alcohol. Anyway, the whole “if I’d been a better daughter, she would still be here” scenario is something I lived with for many, many years. It’s a common thing with children who lose their parents, no matter what the cause. And since then 6 (this is my first time to count them) other major people in my life have died – one of them the most significant person so far. I’ve been to funerals, I’ve given eulogies – what feels like more than my share.
From my perspective, none of it is as hard to accept as suicide (and I did have a friend who killed herself that’s not one of the 7). I can tell you that thinking my mother had killed herself was brutal. I had a tough time feeling angry at her either way. I don’t think I even entertained the possibility of being angry until I was in my late 20’s. Even now I have a tough time with anger.
All I can say is, yes I hear you. Not only do people not know (I’m so not including Kelley in this) what to say about suicide, they really shrink from talk of death in general. As if we all don’t end up there.
I have little to offer on this, but I leave you with this. I am a huge fan of The Who. For some reason this song comes to mind. This is a newer live version of a song that was originally on “Who’s Next.” I like this version at the moment. Give it a listen. Not that it’s about this exactly, but still. I offer it as the closet thing I can get to a blanket and a hug from this distance – in case you feel the cold.
Jennifer, thank you for the music and the blanket and hug. You rock. I’m guessing lots of people here are sending hugs back to you.
I hadn’t realized/remembered until reading your story here that the thing that shook me most of all about Night Train was the ending. The express-train anger that suddenly rages through Mike, how it distances her from the whole world and makes it possible for her to do unthinkable things. It’s no wonder so many of us are taught to be afraid of anger.
Jennifer, thanks. We belong to a club where memberhip is not voluntary.
Thanks for the blanket, and for the thoughtful response. You’re not just a virtual friend indeed.
Jennifer, somehow I became anonymous, so this is to let me know the 2 responses from anon. are from be.
Barbara
Damn it! …to let you know.
Barbara
I just read this per recommendation at http://asknicola.blogspot.com. I saw the ending coming about halfway through and kept waiting to be proved wrong. When it finally happened, I felt a bit cheated, like there should’ve been more — or perhaps that was the point. Chalk it up to my lack of literary sophistication. I’d recommend The Blue Place by Nicola Griffith over Night Train any day (or night).
Dianne, maybe now you know a little bit about how Mike felt. No one is a bigger fan of TBP than myself, but this has nothing to do with that. Nicola’s Aud series is much bigger than this book and about much more, but NIGHT TRAIN is an important book – especially for those of us who have searched for and puzzled over the why question. I thought it packed quite a punch.
Barbara, thanks for letting me know. I was wondering if anon. was you.