Money

I came late to this continuum of English men that seems to run through Martin Amis and Ian McEwan, then somehow to connect with Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, and into the murky depths of modern “rationalist” movements and “free thinkers.” I worry that if I'd been exposed to it at the right stage of being an angry young man, I'd be more insufferable today.

Putting all that to one side for a minute, McEwan and Amis are both very good at writing pointy stories about horrid men. Money is particularly interesting at the moment because it's hard not to read the protagonist as Trump, isn't it? This man lusts and sweats his way around New York, ugly and moving always in a patina of, if not the reality of: money. The hollow in the middle of the man. His downfall as a result of his own stupidity and the avarice of the wronguns around him. It all has echoes.

The foul, brilliant narration is impressive if exhausting. The inclusion of the author as a character gets a little bit of an eye roll from me but I don't mind it terribly. In the end, I come away wondering quite why these men of dubious intellectual circles are so good at writing these male monsters that want to make you tear your own skin off. And yes, I come away entertained.