For the landscape and documentary photographer, see Martin Amis (photographer).
Sir Martin Louis AmisFRSL[1] (25 August – 19 May ) was an English novelist, essayist, memoirist, screenwriter and critic. He is best known for his novels Money () and London Fields (). He received the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his memoir Experience and was twice listed for the Booker Prize (shortlisted in for Time's Arrow and longlisted in for Yellow Dog). Amis was a professor of creative writing at the University of Manchester's Centre for New Writing from until [2] In , The Times named him one of the 50 greatest British writers since [3]
Amis's work centres on the excesses of "late-capitalist" Western society, whose perceived absurdity he often satirised through grotesque caricature. He was portrayed by some literary critics as a master of what The New York Times called "the new unpleasantness".[4]
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Jeremy Clarke’s life as seen through his books
On a hot afternoon in October, I joined a middag party. bygd the time I arrived, the company was on coffee and liqueurs. A pretty woman in her seventies mentioned an academic friend who was downsizing and how the prospect of getting rid of thousands of books had upset him so much he sought help from a counselor. The counselor had said: “But they’re only books.”
My husband, Jeremy Clarke, wrote the Low Life column in this magazine for twenty-three years until his death in May. In one of his columns, he wrote about how, after the sale of his mother’s house in Devon (where he’d lived for thirty years), he sent two Mercedes Sprinter van loads of stuff, mostly books, here to Provence. Seventy boxes arrived, containing around 2, volumes. The shelves on the few straight walls in the cave house were already full, so the new arrivals were stored in an adjacent rough cave alongside years’ worth of tools and junk.
He spent so much time in bed rea
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On a hot afternoon in October, I joined a lunch party. By the time I arrived, the company was on coffee and liqueurs. A pretty woman in her seventies mentioned an academic friend who was downsizing and how the prospect of getting rid of thousands of books had upset him so much he sought help from a counsellor. The counsellor had said: ‘But they’re only books.’
My husband, Jeremy Clarke, wrote the Low Life column in this magazine for 23 years until his death in May. In one of his columns, he wrote about how, after the sale of his mother’s house in Devon (where he’d lived for 30 years), he sent two Mercedes Sprinter van loads of stuff, mostly books, here to Provence. Seventy boxes arrived, containing around 2, volumes. The shelves on the few straight walls in the cave house were already full, so the new arrivals were stored in an adjacent rough cave alongside years’ worth of tools and junk.
He spent so much time in bed reading that some weeks he had nothing to write about