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I was afraid to continue reading Success after I finished the first two chapters. I was afraid of when I would eventually see myself in Gregory, and much, much more frightened of when I would see a piece of Mike Hart stretching out in Terry’s pasty monochromatic skin. Not only were my fears realized, they came out at the most inopportune time. I found myself in Greg as his slide hit the slipperiest slope and began its downhill tumble at an alarming pace: “I used to love the man I would become. I don’t any longer. Look at him, look at him.�� Still, that is seemingly standard quarter life angst. When Terry found a way to capsulate my life, it was much more personalized:

“And I can see, too, that I’m going to have to change the way I am. My calculations about how to stay alive and sane on this particular planet have clearly been at fault. Lots of people are plenty uglier and poorer than me without seeming to mind, without the self-hate and self-pity �� the sentimentality, in a word �� that makes me such a quivering condom of neurosis and ineptitude. I have never been nice, but from now on, boy, am I going to be nasty. I’ll show you.��

In a dark, dank, down-and-out place, I wanted to hurt people. Indelibly. And for Amis to understand that, and render it so clearly, it is upsettingly poignant. Many a critic has said that there is no one quite like Martin Amis. And for that I am thankful. If every novelist could peer into my soul like this man, reading books would be a much more harrowing experience.