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.