mere timekiller

“Just as Keith Talent would be proud to represent his country in an England shirt, so Nicola, in garter-belt and stockings and ankle-bracelet, would be perfectly prepared to represent her century. It started, she supposed, with Joyce, who was clearly interested in it: a murky nostalgie. Lawrence was interested in it: earth, blood, will (yes, and enforced degradation). Beckett was interested in it: a callowly uncomplicated yearning (Nicola decided) to cause distress and preferably damage, trauma, to the female parts. As for the Americans, they all seemed to be interested in it: with John Updike, it was mainly just another thing humans could do, and everything human interested Updike; of Norman Mailer one didn’t need to inquire too deeply (a mere timekiller, before greater violence); Philip Roth, with what must be farcical irony, bedroom-farcical irony, refers to it as ‘anal love’. V. S. Naipaul, on the other hand, who was very interested in it, speaks of ‘a sexual black mass’. Well, black, anyway. And a black hole was mass, pure mass, infinite mass.”

Martin Amis, London Fields

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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