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Success is a possum of a novel. Let me be specific, I don't mean a cute animated creature hamming along with a William Shatner voiceover: Rosebud. I mean the feral variety. Years ago I was leaving a cafe with some friends and turning on the headlights I was startled by a snarling possum glaring at me, threatening me with an ever painful and likely lethal gnawing. I am often bothered by that memory.

Amis bares his teeth in this one, a fifty-fifty approach to diverting fortunes. The narrative begins in a tone of excess, every action is hypertrophied beyond satire. There was a need to brace for impact. I became sad that I was going to hate this book. Then it abruptly congealed. The two characters Terry and Gregory changed orbits in that terrifying street scene of an early 1970s London. The novel screamed to its conclusion . There was a pause, I was nearly breathless. Amis brings a smirk to every page as well as our assured doom. I tend to think he means it.