Richard Tull and Gwyn Barry: friends/enemies since university; both writers; the first an unsuccessful, unreadable experimental novelist, the second a bland, populist millionaire.  Perhaps, given this is an Amis book, it is inevitable that Tull realizes what he must do: “a literary endeavor, a quest, an exaltation–one to which he could sternly commit all his passion and his power.  He was going to fuck Gwyn up.”  And so it begins.

The Information contains Amis’ usual staples of black humour, strange characters, and idiosyncratic dialogue, written in Amis’ distinct style.   Also similar to his other books is that it is hard for me categorize.  Like Amis’ London Fields, it incredibly unpleasant, but in some ways, even more so: Richard Tull is pretentious, jealous–his attempts to ruin Gwyn run from writing articles to smear his reputation to getting him beat up–but is also, quite simply, just pathetic.  Gwyn Barry, on the other hand, is no better; his success and boyishness barely masking his egotism and petty, controlling nature.  As off-putting as these characters are, the book is still compelling, and perhaps that’s a bit of the point.

“What’s this?  The History of Increasing Humiliation.  Nonfiction, right?” [...]

[Tull] said, as he had said before, “It would be a book accounting for the decline in the status and virtue of literary protagonists.  First gods, then demigods, then kings, then great warriors, great lovers, then burghers and merchants and vicars and doctors and lawyers.  Then social realism: you.  Then irony: me.  Then maniacs and murdereres, tramps, mobs, rabble, flotsam, vermin. [...] The history of astronomy is the history of increasing humiliation.  First the geocentric universe, then the heliocentric universe.  Then the eccentric universe–the one we’re living in.  Every century we get smaller.”

Tull’s actions mean nothing, his betrayals, and others’ betrayals to him, mean nothing–not in the scope of the universe.  Planets do not collide, the stars do not explode.  Yet ultimately is the realization that Tull himself means something; as a husband, a father, and a human*.  That, or perhaps I came away with the wrong interpretation of this book as I attempted to inject some humanism into something that, it seems, is quite misanthropic ;)

A hesitant recommendation if the above sounds appealing.  To be honest, looking back at this over a month after I read it, I’m still not sure if I even liked it… but I don’t regret having read it.

*after thinking about it, I’m making this sound waaaaaay  more sentimental than it is ;)  It’s definitely not that kind of book.