Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Kingsley Amis was rather an old devil himself when he wrote this novel, and every bitter, precise word shows how accustomed he'd already become to the aches and indignities of senescence:

Standing quite motionless he gazed before him with a faraway look that a passer-by, especially a Welsh passer-by, might have taken for one of moral if not spiritual insight, such that he might instantly renounce whatever course of action he had laid down for himself. After a moment, something like a harsh bark broke from the lower half of his trunk, followed by a fluctuating whinny and a thud that sounded barely organic, let alone human.
—p.66

That's Alun Weaver, Britain's best, or at least best-known, living Welsh poet, and the central character (primus inter pares) of The Old Devils. Weaver, who reportedly changed his first name from "Alan" in order to be more Welsh, has made his career out of being the semi-official hagiographer for the sainted departed "Brydan" (a stand-in for Dylan Thomas), who was of course Wales' best dead poet.

And now, after years of modest success in London (television appearances, a book or two), it's time for Alun and his handsome wife Rhiannon to return in triumph to the little Welsh town from which they came, and take up again with the mates who knew them best, back when they were all young and hungry.

Like cats among pigeons, or a snooker player's cue ball striking the rack, the Weavers' arrival irrevocably alters the settled trajectories of all their old friends. Alun was—is—an adulterer, not so much serial as massively parallel, and Rhiannon's own retinue of male followers remains thoroughly bewitched by her charms. There's more than one tearful scene, more than one exchange of angry words, in the futures of Peter, Muriel, Malcolm, Gwen, Charlie and the others whose routine is being upset.

Despite John Banville's carefully-worded Introduction, by the way, this book's political sentiments were not at all upsetting to me. I only noticed a couple of gratuitous asides, easily ignored, about the perfidy of "left-wingers" and the like. Amis' characters seem to be more old-fashioned conservatives—more concerned with fretting over the good things that've been lost than with actively working to dismantle the progress that's truly been made in so many areas.

There's nothing out of the ordinary about any of this, of course—absolutely everything that transpires in The Old Devils is utterly mundane. But Amis' prose is extraordinarily vivid. Like the sharp-edged light in one of those BBC situation comedies that get sent overseas to be broadcast on PBS, the illumination he throws on these old fools' cross-purposes picks out every harsh detail... and it's fascinating.

It's also heartening, in a way, to watch these folks carry on. These are men and women in their sixties and seventies, after all, long after our youth-obsessed culture will have relegated them to invisibility. (I'm starting to notice some of that syndrome myself.) But as Banville's Introduction says, "In this novel, drink, sex, and death dance a merry round." (p.xi) Amis' characters are all very much alive—they may have slowed down some physically, but they're still as active as ever both mentally and socially. They are nowhere near ready to go gently into that good night. And as I was drawn into their antics, I realized anew that people really do only get old on the outside.

This book may not have made quite as much of a splash as Lucky Jim or, for sf fans, The Alteration... but it well deserves the accolades it's received.