401 CHRONICLESnas criminals for taking up arms; in thenRepublic, all shades of Republican sentimentnare publicly tolerated, exceptnthe IRA. A citizen of the Republicnmust monitor British airwaves if henwants to hear or see representatives ofnthe IRA. They are banned from thenRepublic’s radio and television in theninterest of “controlling terrorism” andnpreventing a full discussion of the realnsituation in Ireland.nThere is nothing very edifyingnabout the IRA. It is a brutal, authoritariannorganization, but it does represent—nin its uncompromising goalnof a united Ireland — what will be theneventual solution to this age-long conflict.nEventually, Ireland will be onencountry, separated from England. Itnwill be a country composed of a numbernof traditions, but none of them willnbe supported by a foreign force as nownin the North, where England sees fit tonprotect and foster the Loyalist cause.nBut today even the Loyalists arenbeginning to see that this cannot go onnforever, and there is talk of an independentnNorthern Ireland which manynthink would be a step in the rightndirection. In many ways the Loyalistsnare a tragic people, touching in theirnlove of the Crown, and their pride inntheir dead on the Somme withoutnrealizing that the English see themnas just another aspect of “The IrishnProblem.”nMuch of the American intellectualncommunity is Anglophile and willfulnin its ignorance of Irish history. If itnhasn’t been on PBS as a boring BritishnTV series, these pundits won’t knownanything about it. The curse of smallnnations is to know too much history,nespecially of their relations with theirnlarge neighbor. The large neighbor, onnhis part, could care less and blundersnon.nThe whole relationship betweennEngland and Ireland can be summednup in a single English joke: An Irish­nman is sitting in a London pub. Henturns to the West Indian sitting next tonhim and asks, “You wouldn’t be Irish,nwould you?” “No,” the West Indiannreplies, “I have enough trouble beingncoloured.”nNeed we remind ourselves of allnthose other garden spots of fraternitynand toleration in the world today: thenIndian sub-continent, Palestine, SouthnAfrica, Canada, Cyprus — all, like Ireland,nthe victims of the unfailing Englishnability to divide, conquer, andnrule through the manipulation of religious,nnational, or racial groups. Ah,nhappy world.nThomas McGonigle’s most recentnnovel is The Corpse Dream of N.nPetkov (The Dalkey Archive Press).nCriticism Litenby Gregory J. SullivannThe Moronic Inferno and OthernVisits to America by MartinnAmis, New York: Viking Press;n$16.95.nAny reader familiar with Martin Amis’nnovels — especially his most recent.nMoney: A Suicide Note (1984)—willnnot be surprised by the relentlesslyncontemptuous tone of The MoronicnInferno and Other Visits to America, ancollection of his essays and articles onnAmerica and Americans. While Amisnconfesses at the outset that he “feel[s]nfractionally American” (his wife, wenare told, is one of ours), he makes anheroic effort to distinguish himselfnfrom the America so superficially depictednin this slovenly little book.nRoughly half the pieces in The MoronicnInferno are book reviews, all ofnwhich cover contemporary Americannnovelists: Vidal, Roth, and Hellern(Amis is nothing if not impeccablyntrendy in his tastes). They’re hardly thensort of writers to evoke profundity innany reviewer. There are a few insights,nhowever: contrasting, for example, thenrelative sophistication of Mailer’s ThenNaked and the Dead with his laternefforts. Amis says, “The novel wasnimpossibly adult: the immaturity wasnall to come.” Amis views this immaturitynin both writers and their work asnsomehow an inevitable consequencennnof pursuing a life of letters in thisnRepublic. He seems wholly unawarenthat Walker Percy and Robert PennnWarren have created formidable oeuvresnwithout embracing the public andnprivate silliness of Mailer and the NewnYork scene.nAmis’ literary icon — the sole islandnof sanity and culture in PhilistinenAmerica — is Saul Bellow: “Saul Bellownreally is a great American writer. Inthink that in a sense he is the writernthat the twentieth century has beennwaiting for. . . . Bellow has made hisnown experience resonate more memorablynthan any living writer.” Now,nBellow is a good novelist, but it is hardnto believe that his experience has resonatednmore memorably than Solzhenitsyn’s.nMoreover, Amis is too reverentialntoward Bellow’s fiction (ThenDean’s December, a disappointingnbook even for a Bellow admirer, isngiven a flattering review) and his opinionsnon American decadence. And it isnwith the latter that Amis is most concerned.nIn his chats with Bellow, Amisnrarely brings up literary subjects; instead.nBellow is queried about politicsnand the corrupt sensibility of acquisitivenAmerica. He tells Amis that “thisnis not an art society. It is a moneynsociety, a pleasure society.” Amis, alas,nreports this indictment with sycophanticnglee.nIn his essay on Joan Didion, Amisnreveals more than he intended: “All ofnus are excited by what we most deplore,”nand what he obviously findsnmost deplorable about America is itsntawdriness, something that not onlynexcites but titillates him. Not surprisingly,nthen, his essays on Americann”culture” are merely trips throughnthe menagerie — namely, Elvis, PalmnBeach, Hugh Hefner, and so on.nThere is something almost pathetic innthis unfailingly parochial view ofnAmerica.n”Double Jeopardy: Making Sensenof AIDS,” Amis’ most consistent attemptnat seriousness in The MoronicnInferno, is well researched; but hisnfailure to comprehend the moral facetnof this behaviorally based disease isntypical. That is, he is aware that thenhomosexual “life-style” (not “lifechoice,”nas Amis erroneously says wencall it) was before AIDS savagely promiscuous;nhe notes, for instance, thatn”the median number of sexual part-n