Martin Amis has recently announced his intention of emigrating, we learn from the newspapers, which regularly make a fuss about his life - the size of his advances, his passion for snooker, his failure to win the Booker Prize, the disastrous condition of his teeth, his divorce, his fractured friendships with his agent and her husband, the novelist Julian Barnes. And behind all this is the odd fact, now seen as almost too familiar to be worth mentioning, that he is the son of a celebrated novelist, from whom he has inherited an English brand of elegant misanthropy and an interest in the satirical possibilities of virtuoso syntax and popular semantic variations - admittedly, Americanized to a degree that would probably not have greatly pleased Kingsley Amis.1

    In a recent review of Martin Amis’ Night Train, his latest fiction, Frank Kermode acknowledges the literary relationship between the author and his father Kingsley, as a great many critics do. This acknowledgement, however brief, rests on a common, though rarely considered assumption that readers will recognise the significance of such a relationship when examining the works of father or son. The review appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, several months after the release of Night Train, and like many other reviews of the novel (and despite Kermode’s protestations to the contrary), it is preoccupied with Amis’ private life. Whether or not Kermode had made a conscious effort to do so, his first mention of Amis senior comes after an account of the negative aspects of Martin’s life and career. Martin has freely discussed  the powerful and over-bearing influence of such a prolific, esteemed, and opinionated literary father figure as Kingsley; but despite Kermode’s apparent conclusions, it is yet to be determined whether such an influence has been of detriment or benefit to the works of either men.

    In his comprehensive study on the works of Martin Amis, James Diedrick makes at least some attempt to address those assumptions made by Kermode and others. The opening pages of the introduction to Understanding Martin Amis hold within them a brief yet thorough discussion of the stylistic, ideological, and aesthetic differences, and similarities, between the work of its primary subject and that of Kingsley. Diedrick reluctantly but inevitably employs Harold Bloom’s theory of the "anxiety of influence" in discussing the psychological dimensions of the filial relationship, and in doing so rests the bulk of his discussion on a psychology which he calls "unrepentantly phallocentric, in which a writer unconsciously perceives his most significant precursors as potentially castrating father figures, and thus employs strategies intended to disarm them. These characteristically involve taking up the literary forms of the precursors and revising, recasting, displacing them."2 With this last sentence, Diedrick has rendered Bloom’s aged Oedipal psychology relevant to this discussion, which will explore the extents to which Martin does or does not "take up the literary forms" of his father.

    Eric Jacobs, in his biography of Kingsley Amis, makes only a brief mention of the literary relationship between Amis senior and Amis junior, listing only superficial differences and falling prey to several misconceptions as he does so. Jacob’s discussion of the topic rests primarily on Kingsley’s often well publicized opinions of his son’s work:

"Between ourselves I only read about half," Amis said of Money; "too boring. Little sod said on TV you had to read it twice. Well then HE’s FAILED hasn’t he?"3

Comments such as this must inevitably lead to a discussion of the two very different literary forms employed by Kingsley and his son. Kingsley’s contempt for experimentation in the novel and for all modernist ideals led him to a return to traditional forms, and also, though rather more reluctantly, to the embracing arms of no less than three literary movements:

First, there was the provincial movement, a group headed by William Cooper. Second, there was The Movement itself, a loose collection, mainly of poets said to be in the process of knocking some hard commonsense into English letters. And finally he was an Angry Young Man, left wing and obsessed with the vacuity of our national life. 4

While Brian Appleyard goes on to reiterate that none of these "movements" actually existed, other than to serve "a journalistic purpose and to help book sales," Rubin Rabinovitz also encourages one to consider that many of "The Angry Young Men" were neither angry, nor young, nor even men. 5

    From the release of his first novel in 1973, Martin Amis has seemed intent on disposing with those traditional literary tropes which have served his father so well. Working beyond the boundaries of realist conventions, the younger Amis has developed a brand of postmodernism all his own. Despite the obvious and radical differences in form, however, similarities between the work of father and son have appeared greater over time. Malcolm Bradbury, for example, draws a parallel between Martin’s first novels and the early work of his father, in terms of attitude and tone. Referring to The Rachel Papers, Bradbury writes:

the story of the adolescent Charles Highway, exploiting sex on his way to Oxford, was a savagely bitter portrait of contemporary society, and also technically disturbing; if the Angry Young Man had come back, it was as a disturbed and perhaps malevolent child, a troubled and extravagant fantasist. 6

Both Martin and Kingsley have been referred to as voices of their respective generations, their work often addressing contemporary social concerns, often through satire, while also introducing aesthetic and technical innovations to the novel form. While Martin’s early novels have been pre-occupied with the once omnipresent threat of nuclear apocalypse, for example, Kingsley Amis’ early work received great acclaim for its iconoclastic enunciation of the post-war crises in the country’s class systems. As William Van O’Connor remarks, "the attention given to Lucky Jim suggests that Amis is looked to as a voice, perhaps the chief voice, of his generation." 7 Furthermore, No, Not Bloomsbury, a phrase taken from the meandering thoughts of Lucky Jim Dixon, is the title of an essay by Bradbury in which he compares Kingsley to Evelyn Waugh, the voice of an earlier generation. 8 Both writers, Bradbury observes, "had captured in subject and style, the manners, the moral upsets, cultural dislocations and social instabilities generated by a recent war." 9

In a brief summation of the more circumstantial similarities between the two writers, Diedrick writes of how "both attended Oxford, and how both won the prestigious Somerset Maugham prize for their first novels." 10 Rather more interestingly, however, Diedrick also goes on to emphasise that "even the significant aesthetic and political differences between the two should not obscure two larger ideological affinities: to differing degrees, bourgeois and patriarchal assumptions inform all their writing." 11 Although a great many discussions on the relationship between the life and works of these writers have been based largely upon the inherent assumptions made by Kermode and others, several critics, quite clearly, have taken some pains to explore this "all too familiar" relationship a little further, throwing open to discussion such issues as form, political ideology, social influence, and filial conflict on their way.

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