Having never read any books by Martin Amis (there's just something about the sneer on his face that has put me off - though long time readers will know that my ex-girlfriend and her son both rate him in different ways), I recently took advantage of a 5 books for £10 offer and acquired his latest work "Yellow Dog". You know, I should maybe give him a try. Maybe his writing isn't as pretentious as I, for some reason, imagine it to be. It's been sitting on my bedside cabinet for a while with a pile of other books that I've bought, but which I've never got round to reading. A few times I've thought about picking it up and giving it a spin, but it's made me feel physically sick; I can't explain this illogical aversion. I haven't been reading too much lately anyway and have been struggling to get through a book by Garrison Keillor which I have found mostly boring. It's weird that once you've invested in a book you feel you have to finish it even if you're not particularly enjoying it. Usually the only way out is to leave it aside for so long that you have forgotten what it's about, then try to hide it.
I hoped the Keillor book would lead to some amazing conclusion that would justify the weeks I had spent trying to fight my way through it, but there was none that I could see. But at least I was free to sample another book from my pile.
I chose Martin Amis and managed to overcome my queasiness and not only hold it in my hands, but open it too. I read the first couple of pages as I sat on the toilet (not that the book itself had loosened my bowel, I was just taking the opportunity to take something in to make up for what I am letting out). I found it difficult to make head or tail of it, to be honest, but maybe things would pick up. Maybe the adventures wouldn't really start until the lead character had bought the eponymous yellow dog. Perhaps he's have magic powers or be able to talk. Or maybe he'd be a really nice shade of yellow and get entered into dog shows and we would be given a glimpse into the behind the scenes world of that particular discipline. He might even help solve a murder. It was definitely worth carrying on with: if Amis had come up with anything half as imaginative as what I'd just thought up on the crapper, then we were in for a good old read. So what if the first few pages didn't really make sense, he was probably just warming up when he wrote them. I could scarcely wait to see which way he was going to take this.
I left the book, open at page 3, upside-down on the side of the bath. I would have another look at it next time I needed to defecate or become clean.
That was a few days ago.
The Martin Amis sickness had returned. The book remained perched on the bath for all this time, its secrets waiting to be discovered. Maybe the dog was made of gold, but was still alive; The owner would have to choose between his love for the animal and the financial reward he would receive for selling him to bracelet manufacturers. Oh the quandary! I hoped the owner's love for the animal would overcome his greed, but this was Martin Amis. Judging by his photo I would say he'd probably be the kind of cynical person who would have his anti-hero plump for the money.
Today I ran myself a bath and thought, maybe it's time to catch up on the adventures of the magic, talking, metal canine and see what crimes he has solved this week. As the bath was running I went upstairs to check my emails.
When I came back the bath was nicely filled with water, but there was something floating on top of it. For a second I thought it was some kind of squid or star-fish, but then I looked closer and realised it was my book. I don't know how this had happened. When I had gone upstairs the book had been safely in the same place it had sat undisturbed for two or three days. But someone or something must have come into the bathroom whilst my back was turned and flipped it into the water.
It looked strangely beautiful. On other occasions when a book had dropped into a bath I have been on hand to rescue it. It may have got slightly wet, but usually not so badly that it can't be dried out on a radiator. But "Yellow Dog" had received a thorough soaking. It's cardboard covers had curled back like petals. It's many pages of dense unreadable prose were sodden and grey. I fished it out, but it was beyond all hope of recovery, drenched in hot water that dripped from its bulk. It was only good for papier mache now. Maybe I could make a piggy bank from it (what a shame it wasn't "Money") or more fittingly a figurine of a dog, which I could paint yellow.
I put the book into the sink, slightly disappointed that I would now never find out what became of the yellow dog who I had become so fond of. But I was mainly relieved. Relieved that I wouldn't have to spend the next few weeks struggling through a book that I had never really wanted to read and that even within three pages I wasn't enjoying. Some god had clearly decided to relieve me of my burden and dunk the book into the water. Now I was free.
But at least I got to see what a really wet book looks like; not something I would ever have wanted to deliberately destroy a book in order to witness. It made me happier than I could imagine and whatever else I think of him (which remember, is mostly imagined from looking at his photo), I have to thank him for writing a book that would provide me with this experience.
I played Scrabble on my Gameboy instead.
