Experience
Dear Martin Amis,
I know that ours is a one sided relationship but I do think we could become very good friends, given half a chance. We are, after all, close enough in age, both driven by words and literature, and family. I feel that I have got to know you, what makes you tick, met quite a few of your relatives and writerly friends – all through the pages of your memoir, Experience.
I’m not saying it was an easy read. I do understand your reason for footnotes but I hated them even as I read every single one. They lounged at the end of the page, ready to qualify throwaway remarks, expand on subjects only hinted at, make the reader fully aware of what exactly had happened; I suppose you could say they served a useful purpose, but they distracted and took from the flow.
Your father, Kingsley, was quite a character. His unflattering rants about some of your work didn’t ever take away from his love for you, didn’t put you off your craft. He never asked you to change or be more like him. There was no competition; only an honesty among equals. Instead, he depended on your unfailing support as his son.
Kingsley couldn’t be alone, truly alone; he scared easily. But you knew this, right from when you were very young, that he needed you and your brother to quell his fears, remind him that he had to hold his end up for both of you. It reminded me of how we, as children, would protect my mother when a storm whipped up and thunder blasted out with flashes of lightening, while she shivered, wordlessly. Parents so rarely show their vulnerable side and yet I wonder if that is why Kingsley was so loved by his children, because they knew that he needed their protection. He was indeed a lucky man.
I just cried when you talked about your cousin, Lucy Partington, who died at the hands of evil bastard, Frederick West. It was horrific and can never be understood. May she rest in peace and may he rot in an everlasting hell.
The rebuilding of your jaw and teeth caused me to remember a time when I used to dream I’d end up with a mouth full of black molars. You wrote of your visits to your dentist, Mike Szabatura, "being fitted and finetuned". I sat with you in Szabatura’s surgery remembering my seven-year-old self when I asked my torturer to stop, as agreed, when I raised my hand. He didn’t so I kicked him hard in the shins, bolted out of the chair and left the building. My father assured me that I would still qualify for a Teddy’s Ice Cream, as promised, before we entered the house of hell. Like you, I tackled my dental inadequacies in later life and now have a sparkling smile that cost a fortune.
There were many times I had to stop and re-read a particular sentence or paragraph, but not because of a lack of understanding, or a momentary lapse in concentration. I stopped to enjoy the way you wrote, the words that fell like jewels from your pen and landed on the page as a piece of art upon a canvas and I’d feel a stab of envy which fell away in the pleasure of it all.
It only remains for me to wish you well, to hope that the good memories outweigh the bad, to say that I remain, most sincerely yours,
Mary Burnham
I know that ours is a one sided relationship but I do think we could become very good friends, given half a chance. We are, after all, close enough in age, both driven by words and literature, and family. I feel that I have got to know you, what makes you tick, met quite a few of your relatives and writerly friends – all through the pages of your memoir, Experience.
Your father, Kingsley, was quite a character. His unflattering rants about some of your work didn’t ever take away from his love for you, didn’t put you off your craft. He never asked you to change or be more like him. There was no competition; only an honesty among equals. Instead, he depended on your unfailing support as his son.
Kingsley couldn’t be alone, truly alone; he scared easily. But you knew this, right from when you were very young, that he needed you and your brother to quell his fears, remind him that he had to hold his end up for both of you. It reminded me of how we, as children, would protect my mother when a storm whipped up and thunder blasted out with flashes of lightening, while she shivered, wordlessly. Parents so rarely show their vulnerable side and yet I wonder if that is why Kingsley was so loved by his children, because they knew that he needed their protection. He was indeed a lucky man.
I just cried when you talked about your cousin, Lucy Partington, who died at the hands of evil bastard, Frederick West. It was horrific and can never be understood. May she rest in peace and may he rot in an everlasting hell.
The rebuilding of your jaw and teeth caused me to remember a time when I used to dream I’d end up with a mouth full of black molars. You wrote of your visits to your dentist, Mike Szabatura, "being fitted and finetuned". I sat with you in Szabatura’s surgery remembering my seven-year-old self when I asked my torturer to stop, as agreed, when I raised my hand. He didn’t so I kicked him hard in the shins, bolted out of the chair and left the building. My father assured me that I would still qualify for a Teddy’s Ice Cream, as promised, before we entered the house of hell. Like you, I tackled my dental inadequacies in later life and now have a sparkling smile that cost a fortune.
There were many times I had to stop and re-read a particular sentence or paragraph, but not because of a lack of understanding, or a momentary lapse in concentration. I stopped to enjoy the way you wrote, the words that fell like jewels from your pen and landed on the page as a piece of art upon a canvas and I’d feel a stab of envy which fell away in the pleasure of it all.
It only remains for me to wish you well, to hope that the good memories outweigh the bad, to say that I remain, most sincerely yours,
Mary Burnham
Labels: Experience, Martin Amis
