booze. Often he is plastered by midafternoon;nhe concedes that “sleep isnan exalted term for what I get up tonnowadays. These are blackouts, bub.”nLike many heavy drinkers and chronicnshoppers, Self recognizes that his selfdestructivencompulsions are symptomaticnof a life that is profoundly disorderednand — in his- case — utterly,npathetically empty and friendless. Andnlike many addicts, Self is much givennto periods of intense self-loathing. Repeatedlynhe calls attention to his enormousngut, his “beady, scaly face”—tonhis assorted phobias and his absolutenlack of self-control. “I wish someonenhad taught me self-discipline,” hennotes after mentioning that he oncenheard Prince Charles observe that selfdisciplinenseemed “absolutely essentialnto any kind of civilized existence.”nThis “someone,” Self muses, “couldnhave taught me pride, dignity, andnFrench too, while they [sic] were at it.nI wouldn’t have had to lift a finger. Butnno one eer did teach me all that stuff.nI’ve endeavored to teach it to myself Insit around trying to teach myself selfdiscipline.nI can’t be doing with it,nthough (it just isn’t fun, selfdiscipline),nand I always end up goingnout for a good time instead.”nHI CHRONICLES OF CULTUREnConsiderable self-discipline is, ofncourse, also required of anyone who,nlike Martin Amis, aims to write seriouslynand well. Some hints in Moneynsuggest that Self is partially Amis’n— and perhaps every writer’s—Mr.nHyde. He is that shiftless, stubbornndoppelganger who most days must bendragged by the hair to the writingntable. It is also evident that Amis wantsnus to recognize that Self is typical ofnthose ubiquitous clods whose mindsnhave been warped not only by pornography,nbut by the notion—expressednfor many years in barracks and lockernrooms—that women who are not innone’s family can be safely regarded asnlegitimate objects of prey.nIt is more apparent that Amis wantsnus to see the crass, narcissistic Self as anplausible personification of the age innwhich he lives; to recognize that—asnSelf himself puts it—“my way is comingnup in the world.” Self is a perfectnsucker for the shallow images of thengood life that movies, magazines, andnadvertisements incessantiy provide; henis a thoroughgoing materialist mostncomfortable among those who “talknabout money in that sharky Americannstyle, as if money were the only gaugenof anything, the only measure.” Hennnhas no sense of the past and littieninterest in the future; he livesn— anxiously, neurotically_in whatnhe calls “the panting present,” Henconcedes that he has been “cretinized”nby television; that he cannot concentratenlong enough to get through Orwell’snhnd Animal Farm—a title, frequentlynmentioned in Money, thatnaptiy describes the carnal, greedy milieunin which Self and his associatesnroot and wallow.nStill, Self is not wholly repugnant.nMany readers are likely to see him asnsimply an effectively rendered,nmodern-day version of the stage fatnman—the sweating, fumbling buffernand puffer. Perhaps most will pity himnwhen he describes the peculiar circumstancesnof his childhood; when henadmits to being weak and miserablenand desperate for help. “Look at mynprivate culture,” he shouts at onenpoint. “Look at the state of it. It reallynisn’t very nice in here. And that is whynI long to burst out of the world ofnmoney and into—into what? Into thenworld of thought and fascination. Howndo I get there? Tell me, please. I’llnnever make it by myself I just don’tnknow the way.”nMoney, like John Self, is overweight:nno reader is likely to wish itneven a paragraph longer. But its depictionnof our culture of mass consumptionnis unusually incisive; its designnintricate, intriguing. And it is oftennquite funny, particularly on those occasionsnwhen a rather starched youngnwriter called Martin Amis appears andnthrusts and parries with the ludicrouslynself-inflated Self. Such scenes allownAmis to engage in a bit of amusingnself-parody and — as is the fashionn—to call close attention to the fictitiousnessnof his fiction.nMartin Amis is the son of KingsleynAmis, who is best known in Americanfor comic novels like Lucky ]im andnTake a Girl Like You. Martin Amis firstnachieved wide notice in 1973, when atn24 he published his first novel, annamusing but not terribly distinguishednromp entitied The Rachel Papers. AnitanBrookner, an accomplished art historiannand practicing academic, did notnpublish her first novel—A Start innLife—until 1980, when she was closento 40. Since then, Brookner has producednthree novels that have beennwell-received in both her native Brit-n