In my younger and more smart-assy years I used to like Martin Amis a lot, and as far as I remember, I enjoyed this novel very much ten years ago. I thought I’d enjoy it this time, too – the first sentences in any case were so good that I didn’t even continue reading that night because I was just swooning with pleasure.
„Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It’s nothing. Just sad dreams.”
This here is perfection, enough to keep me happy for a night.
But despite the amazing first sentences, in the end I found this novel dead boring and irritating – perhaps because I’m not young and I’m not a smartass anymore. Oh, wait – I still am, so perhaps the real reason is that I now find this particular type of smartassery boring and irritating: this oh-so-sophistaced, forced-ironic, over-stylized type of smartassery makes me cringe now. (Except, of course, when I myself am doing it.)
Smartassery fits the novel, though, because The Information is very literary – in the sense that it’s main topic is literature (which is, as everyone knows, dying). More precisely: the main topics are writers, writing, publishing, and the question of what you can write about.
For example, the writers in the novel (or maybe it’s not them, maybe it’s – the fictional self of – Martin Amis, because, as usual, he wrote himself into this novel, so that he can be witty and smart at the reader from inside the book) once talk about how throughout the history of literature, heroes progressively got smaller and more and more insignificant. In ancient times, the heroes were gods and demigods, later literature was all about kings, knights, and bishops, still later about the man of the street, and still later about the people from society’s underbelly. Consequently, all that remains now for literature is to talk about writers and literature, but this is no solution – you cannot write metafiction until the end of eternity. (Fortunately.)
Anyway, metafiction was still in full swing for Martin Amis in 1995, so this novel is about two writers. One of them reinvents literature, or rather, he returns to a weird kind of ancient simplicity that probably never existed in the first place. He writes a couple of dumb, childish utopias that lack any drama, feeling, or life, and for some reason he ends up wildly successful. The other writer, in the meanwhile, goes to the other extreme: he writes unreadable literature, the kind that causes physical pain, and his latest novel (titled Untitled) is famous for its ability to bring on acute migraine, nosebleed, or any other illness after three or four pages. No wonder he doesn’t become successful.
These writers, by the way, are old friends, the kind who actually hate each other, and they both try to humiliate and destroy the other. While they are engaged in their petty little literary wars, the world out there is getting smaller and smaller and getting closer and closer to its end, and we are constantly reminded that compared to the stars and galaxies, we are all totally insignificant, with all our literary or other ambitions and successes and failures.
This is partly entertaining because Amis isn’t only a smartass – he’s really smart, too, and his style is admirably sarcastic, still – it’s boring, partly because Amis himself already covered the same things in roughly the same manner in London Fields, and partly because literature – for me – is more interesting when it deals with something else besides itself.