Martin Amis, enfant terrible, described as the literary "Mick Jagger" has died at the age of 73.
A shock - he seems too young (and only four years older than me).
I've commented on him in passing in two posts hitherto (see labels), in which I noted that although I had read some of his non-fiction, I had never read any of his novels. This situation has not changed. Now I think it never will. If reading a serious novel is a dialogue with the author, there is no need for this dialogue now. (I'm not including entertainment novels in this generalisation, and most novels I read are for entertainment only).
So, goodbye, Martin. Golden, good-looking boy, famous son of a famous father, acclaimed and praised voice of an era.
"Golden girls and boys all must
As chimney sweepers come to dust" (Shakespeare, Cymbeline).
I've realised that this is why I find planting trees more important (see previous post). They will outlive me. (And most writing other than Jane Austen and Shakespeare).
You can measure an oak tree's circumference with a tape measure and refer to an app to see how old the tree is. This one is approximately 350 years old.
