Visiting Mrs. Nabokov: And Other Excursions by Martin Amis Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martin Amis
insubstantial. You want to get away from the death-ubiquity; you want to get back to life. And when I took my seat in the smoking section of the 747 at Dulles, I realised I was flying back just as I had flown in: with extra sadness, bitter complexity, with extra nuke fatigue — but unchanged. However far you go into nuclear weapons, there is no understanding to be had, only more knowledge. This is as it should be, because nuclear weapons are nothing.
And everything, also, at the same time. In The Fate of the Earth, Jonathan Schell stressed the need for sobriety in the nuclear debate; the Pressed Man must be civil to the Recruiter, despite the enticements of exasperation and anger, I have always assented to the justice of this tenet, while often wondering why I find it so hard to abide by. I genuinely don't want to be civil to, or civil about, the Pentagon handyman, the peanut at Present Danger, the charm-school colonel on the phone with his You betcha and That's what we're here for (but what else are they here for?), the princes of darkness, the foolish and complaisant President. How strictly do civilised rules apply to civilisation's enemies? This is a human story, and human pressures, human mobilisations, can be brought to bear upon it.
The answer to a predicament must be of the same size as that predicament. It must have congruence. The nuclear debate is a debate conducted with our fathers — but it is about our children. If the Recruiters are to be isolated and eventually pathologised - if the planet is to grow up - then our children will have to act in self-defence. We must fix our kids so that they will have nothing to do with anyone who has anything to do with anyone who has anything to do with nuclear weapons, with instruments of blood and rubble. The process will begin at that moment of mortal shame when we acquaint them with the status quo, with the facts of life, the facts of death. So come on. In an inversion of filial confession, we will have to take deep breaths, wipe our eyes and stare into theirs, and tell them what we've done.
Esquire, 1987
WATFORD IN CHINA
In 1983 Watford Football Club paid an off-season visit to China. A modest, obscure, suburban team, Watford were newcomers to the higher ranks of the sport — where they have not remained. Their controversial 'long-ball' game (the mid-field punt towards the big blokes in the opposition's penalty area) lifted them from the Third Division to the First. Star player: John Barnes (now of Liverpool). Manager: Graham Taylor (now of England). Chairman: Elton John.
Fearing the worst — and hoping for the best possible copy — I expected Watford to play the China card. That is to say, I expected half the squad to play pontoon and drink beer in their hotel rooms, while the other half would play pontoon and drink beer out by the pool. I expected the players to eat steak and chips, do Sun crosswords and make frequent calls home, to the wife, the girlfriend, the agent and the bookie. I expected the team's only cultural concession to their historic tour would be the odd racist taunt, the occasional self-destructive experiment with rice wine, and one or two requests for a Chinese takeaway. How would these stormy individualists fare, how would they cope, in the unsmiling termitary of Red China?
Wearing a Billy Bunter suit, a banded boater, purple sunglasses and a diamond earring, Chairman Elton John gazed down fondly at his proteges. Kippered and sallowed by the twenty-hour flight, in regulation blazers, flannels and club ties, the players impassively awaited their baggage in the chaotic kiln of Peking Airport. For a moment they looked far more inscrutable and regimented than the quacking Chinese who bustled about them ... I knew then that all my expectations were misplaced. And so it proved.
The Press has often been blamed for the poor image of footballers and football in general. There is a tacit conspiracy in Fleet Street - but it is a conspiracy
And everything, also, at the same time. In The Fate of the Earth, Jonathan Schell stressed the need for sobriety in the nuclear debate; the Pressed Man must be civil to the Recruiter, despite the enticements of exasperation and anger, I have always assented to the justice of this tenet, while often wondering why I find it so hard to abide by. I genuinely don't want to be civil to, or civil about, the Pentagon handyman, the peanut at Present Danger, the charm-school colonel on the phone with his You betcha and That's what we're here for (but what else are they here for?), the princes of darkness, the foolish and complaisant President. How strictly do civilised rules apply to civilisation's enemies? This is a human story, and human pressures, human mobilisations, can be brought to bear upon it.
The answer to a predicament must be of the same size as that predicament. It must have congruence. The nuclear debate is a debate conducted with our fathers — but it is about our children. If the Recruiters are to be isolated and eventually pathologised - if the planet is to grow up - then our children will have to act in self-defence. We must fix our kids so that they will have nothing to do with anyone who has anything to do with anyone who has anything to do with nuclear weapons, with instruments of blood and rubble. The process will begin at that moment of mortal shame when we acquaint them with the status quo, with the facts of life, the facts of death. So come on. In an inversion of filial confession, we will have to take deep breaths, wipe our eyes and stare into theirs, and tell them what we've done.
Esquire, 1987
WATFORD IN CHINA
In 1983 Watford Football Club paid an off-season visit to China. A modest, obscure, suburban team, Watford were newcomers to the higher ranks of the sport — where they have not remained. Their controversial 'long-ball' game (the mid-field punt towards the big blokes in the opposition's penalty area) lifted them from the Third Division to the First. Star player: John Barnes (now of Liverpool). Manager: Graham Taylor (now of England). Chairman: Elton John.
Fearing the worst — and hoping for the best possible copy — I expected Watford to play the China card. That is to say, I expected half the squad to play pontoon and drink beer in their hotel rooms, while the other half would play pontoon and drink beer out by the pool. I expected the players to eat steak and chips, do Sun crosswords and make frequent calls home, to the wife, the girlfriend, the agent and the bookie. I expected the team's only cultural concession to their historic tour would be the odd racist taunt, the occasional self-destructive experiment with rice wine, and one or two requests for a Chinese takeaway. How would these stormy individualists fare, how would they cope, in the unsmiling termitary of Red China?
Wearing a Billy Bunter suit, a banded boater, purple sunglasses and a diamond earring, Chairman Elton John gazed down fondly at his proteges. Kippered and sallowed by the twenty-hour flight, in regulation blazers, flannels and club ties, the players impassively awaited their baggage in the chaotic kiln of Peking Airport. For a moment they looked far more inscrutable and regimented than the quacking Chinese who bustled about them ... I knew then that all my expectations were misplaced. And so it proved.
The Press has often been blamed for the poor image of footballers and football in general. There is a tacit conspiracy in Fleet Street - but it is a conspiracy
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