The Old ReliablenbyJ.O. TatenThe Folks That Live on the Hillnby Kingsley AmisnNew York: Summit Books;n246 pp., $18.95nHere is a sentence that begins withnthe deep predication of HenrynJames, though not with his tone, andnproceeds to a cadenza in the unmistakablenAmis mode: “On current form henwould never be in danger of imaginingnthat her merely being his sister somehownmade Clare less effectively a womannthan the rest of her sex, or what wasnnowadays called her gender, as if like allnthe others she had become a noun ornadjectival form in an inflected language.”nThere is a divinity that shapesnKingsley Amis’s prose style, rough-hewnit how he will.nI read Amis, as I think many othersndo, in order to read sentences like thatnone, and even better ones. While therenis no shortage of such in The Folks ThatnLive on the Hill, that is not the onlyncause to enjoy Amis’s latest novel.nOthers are the old-fashioned virtues ofncharacterization, development, suspense,nand incidental comedy. Alsonthere are atmosphere, social observation,nsense of place — the entire compositionnbeing the picture of Englandnthat is really a postcard from Amisland.nThe Folks That Live on the Hillnmines something of the same vein asnThe Old Devils, Difficulties WithnGirls, and Stanley and the Women,nrecent Amis productions. There arenthe themes of alcohol, sex, aging, thendecline of the quality of life, the meagernbut necessary survival of love, courtesy,nand good will. There is the broadncanvas of characters arranged on Shepherd’snHill and related to each othernthrough the central character, HarrynCaldecote. A retired librarian ambivalentnabout his career and his culture,nand obsessed with sex and booze intonthe bargain, Harry’s a familiar type, anLucky Jim grown older — and wiser,ntoo. Harry has left in his veins some ofnthe milk of human kindness, and henknows when and how to share it.nBecause he’s shrewd and generous,nHarry is sometimes a bit of a mark.nRelatives, in-laws, all kinds want anpiece of him. Desiree, the wife of hisn36/CHRONICLESnpoor brother, Freddie, tries to manipulatenHarry in one of the most wickedlynfunny passages Amis ever wrote. Shentries to imply there’s a “special relationship”nbetween them as Harry resistsnher flirtahous arm-twisting:nThere was supposed to havenbeen a sexual encounter ofnuncertain duration between thentwo of them in and around ansmallish car in some woods ornon some waste groundnsomewhere. Whether it hadnamounted to an act ofnintercourse even God mightnhave been a little bit uncertain.nNeither Desiree nor Harry hadnsaid more than a couple ofnwords about it at the time.nThen gradually it had dawnednon him that she was treating thenwhole thing (what whole thing?)nas unmistakably special, speciallynintense to a degree thatntranscended its brevity andnelevated it to some undefinednarea of the great-loves-of-ourtimencategory.nBut Harry manages to help Freddie innspite of the impossible Desiree, who isnundoubtedly related to the unforgettablenMargaret who so troubled JimnDixon 36 years ago.nNow, 20 novels on, Amis has becomen”Sir Kingsley,” and no wonder.nHer British Majesty has followed thenpublic’s lead, for this author has beennthe best popular novelist in England —nand in the English-speaking worfd —nfor over three decades. As he showsnHarry Caldecote’s relations with hisnwidowed sister Clare, with his alcoholicnniece Fiona, his lesbian daughternBunty, and with all the other men andnwomen and the enveloping process ofnchange and loss. Amis leavens satirenwith sentiment, and shows range as wellnas depth. Above all, he completes hisnportrait of the Harry who can say,n”Holding people in play is my naturalngame.”nIn other words, The Folks That Livenon the Hill is a solid, substantial, andnsatisfying work, the sort of book thatnpeople crave. But returning to mynemphasis on texture over structure, Infind even more to relish. Little thingsnmean a lot.nWho else but Kingsley Amis wouldncompose a prose poem of exasperationnnnto a big slobbering dog — or could?nThe passages about Towser, cannyncombinations of external observationnand internal indignation, are worthy ofnSmollett and Dickens at their verballyninventive best; and in those passagesnTowser seems to be another character,na presence, not always the most annoyingnone around and not even thenstupidest, but certainly the one mostnendowed with toenails and saliva.nReading Amis’s prose is a trip, anblast, a whirl on the merry-go-round.nAgile intelligence is confounded by itsnown vexation, and good sense often isnexpressed in language that is somehownin tense opposition to good taste. Insuppose that when Desmond the restaurateurnhas words with Phillipa thencook. Amis is hinting something aboutnlanguage and values and even aboutnthe book under discussion. He has tontell her to give the clients what theynwant, not what she supposes theynought to want. Her reply is, “Younought to be doing the food in the army.nOr a prison. An oil-rig. Where it’s eatnwhat’s there or go without. ” Desmond’snriposte, it seems to me,nobliquely explains much about the aestheticsnand morals not only of Desmond’sncuisine but also of Amis’s discourse:nFor your information I happennto know that the food on oil-rigsnis gourmet standard, and I meannproper gourmet standard, notnjust half bottles of Cyprus rednpoured into everything. It has tonbe to get the blokes there,nbecause they can’t drink whilenthey’re there. And yeah, in thenarmy and prisons they callnthings by their right names.nThe prose of Sir Kingsley Amis fusesnhigh knowledge with low intuition, intellectnwith feeling, exaltation withngrumbling, tarts and toffs, cabbages andnkings, the mind and the body. What’snoffered for the eye to scan is a wholenscale of experience, a ladder of emotionnfrom the low to the lofty, one comprehensivelynrendered through the mediumnof its expression. The Amis style,nnot only telling us but showing us hownto look at things, leaves nothing promisednthat is not performed.nJ.O. Tate is a professor of English atnDowling College on Long Island.n