The party was a handsome piece of flatulent sobriety, JR noted to himself. Glitters fluttered all around, bandy shanks of a particularly smelly vegetation filled the bodacious hall. No doubt, the decorators in their sheer genius prioritized the visceral over the nasal. It was going to be one of those nights where he would have to pretend that he loved the smell of urine, which was the scent the cursed broccoli were emitting. He would have to endure much more than he thought. As if on cue, the band started playing a pop song he despised. Unlucky sonofabitch, he cursed under his breath. Then he saw them, the wretched little group he had come here for. The group consisted of Dixon, a louse; Bertrand, an asshole; Christine, an angel; Carol, whatever; Margaret, whatever; and Gore-Something, a damn hard name to remember. He started towards them when whack, a tray full of champagne engulfed him. Maconochie, serving as waiter, had somehow collided with him. Fortunately, he was mostly splashed in the face and not in his suit. Cursing Maconochie, who was full of apologies, he divined it a waste of time to skin the bastard so he moved on. Handkerchief in face, he approached the group. ‘Damn shame those wasted champagne, it would’ve been nice to have a lick at them,’ mused Bertrand.He wanted to gouge the man’s eyes, the nerve of him to feel sorry for the champagne he thought, but instead he said smiling, ‘You can have a lick at my face, if you want. You might get a drop or two out of me, some sweat’s sure to come along with it though.’ ‘Oh thank you very much, but I’d have to decline your tempting offer.’ Bertrand said this with a little smile.JR whiffed a faint scent of a sexual advance in the overall effect of the remark and the smile. Was this Bertrand character flirting with him? he laughed. ‘So what do you guys think of the new novel?’ he started. Nobody minded his question. He had to find a better opening. Of course, they wouldn’t simply bite. He would have to work for it. He moved to a spot beside Gore-Something and said “We’ve met a few days before, remember?” Gore-Something replied “Ahh, yes. I remember you.. what was the name again, sorry?” “J R, JR Bacdayan”“So the letters J and R are both spelled individually without making use of their sound? Hmm.. a curious name. A curious name, indeed. I would have thought that a name with two letters would be easy to say, like Jo or Ty. Easy to pronounce, no? But to have to spell two letters, ahh, such hard work. Shall I call you Jay, for convenience sake, if you don’t mind?” Gore-Something said this with a bemused tone. JR was a bit indifferent towards Gore-Something at first, he was a cheeky fellow but he didn’t look queer which was good though his name did suggest imbecility. But all this indifference towards Gore-Something developed into supreme hatred when the latter gave his little soliloquy about JR’s name. ‘The indolent fool,’ he thought to himself, ‘he doesn’t have the gall to pronounce my name does he? Well I won’t have it. I’ll make the limy bastard pay. I’ll make him spell the entire bloody alphabet.’ JR said in a loud booming voice, ‘Yes, I do mind, sir. I’d like to be called my name. I don’t like this lazy business about you, sir.’Gore-Something looked wounded. ‘I was merely suggesting, old boy. You needn’t have to call me lazy. It was all for efficiency’s sake, see. All for efficiency.’ ‘Do you not see the irony, my good sir?’ JR beamed, ‘You make everyone call you Mr. Gore-Urquhart!’ (Thank God he recalled the ridiculous name.) ‘A damn hard name to remember, much less say, sir. And yet you can’t pronounce a name as simple as JR?’ He ended this by giving a little smile, he hoped to dear God it wasn’t interpreted as a sexual advance.‘Ha ha!’ laughed Gore-Urquhart. He was growing large beads of sweat on his gigantic amphibious nose. ‘I see you are quite the funny man, Mr. JR. A good joke. A good joke, indeed!’JR got a bit confused, he wasn’t joking. At the very least he was partially glad that he didn’t offend Gore-Urquhart even if it was just what he intended to do. He would need the large-nosed bastard later on. ‘Why so serious, darling?’ chimed Margaret.‘Oh I wasn’t, it’s as Mr. Gore-Urquhart said. It was a joke, nothing more.’ JR felt a bit thankful towards this distraction. A quick reconnaissance of Margaret suggested she was very drunk and very unrestrained. Not a very good combination considered JR. He would have to stay away from this trap, not that it was very hard. The poor woman wore mismatched colors and looked like the wretched offspring of a rainbow and a flamingo. He even noticed a bit of lipstick on one of her incisors. He flashed her a winning smile. Now this was unmistakably a sexual advance, he thought. ‘Mr. JR, what do you do exactly?’ inquired Carol rather out of the blue. He felt a wave of nausea hit him. ‘Why did this woman want to know? She’s one of them smart alecks, I bet. Anyway, anyone named Carol must love Christmas, and people who love Christmas are the worst. God he could picture her sitting under a Christmas tree singing a bloody carol.’ He shuddered with the thought.‘I write book reviews, Madame’ he said with a detectable trace of apprehension in his voice. ‘Oh, so you like books don’t you?’ Carol said this with a surging confidence as if such an original statement was never uttered before.‘Oh, I abhor them. I’d rather read filthy magazines’ affable contempt pouring out of his voice now. ‘I see,’ replied Carol.It took all he had not to break her neck. No she didn’t see, not even close. He gave her a slight nod. Christine started laughing.‘My my Mr. JR, you shouldn’t play with Carol like that,’ she said smiling. ‘She’s had a bit to drink so you musn’t take this obtuseness against her.’‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ he smiled back. He felt himself staring at her. His affection for this woman was genuine. She was perhaps the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Luscious blonde hair, penetrating blue eyes, thick lips, perfect nose and high cheekbones on a perfectly symmetrical head and curvy body, he felt himself considering the word love. This was confirmed by his sweat glands, for he was now sweating rather profusely in the armpit area. He tried to maneuver a fake head tilt to disguise his attempt to smell it. His attempt failed, though he could see Christine trying hard to suppress a laugh. She moved beside him and whispered, ‘I’m sure it doesn’t smell that bad, let me have a whiff.’ He felt his heart stop. He couldn’t move. His body had failed him. ‘Dd.. dod.. don’t not.’ He stuttered. She slid a finger on his left armpit, rubbed it on her wrist and smelled it like she was smelling perfume. He was horrified. ‘I could get used to this smell,’ she smiled at him. He recognized something in her look. This was his chance, he was going to roll the dice. He wished for luck. He slid closer to Christine and kissed her. She didn’t push him away.‘Oyy what do you think you’re doing to my girl!’ shouted Dixon.‘I’m not your girl, Jim. I’m my own girl. I’ll kiss whoever I damn please,’ Christine looked quite flushed but the anger in her voice was discernible.‘I’ll have a go at you, you wanker!’ cried Dixon. He jumped towards JR and tried to land a punch, but he was quite drunk and had double vision. He ended up fisting the air. JR took the opportunity and shouted at Dixon ‘What do you think about the novel, Jim?’Dixon cried ‘What? Are you trying to be funny with your novel, mate?’‘It’s your novel.’ JR laughed at him.‘Trying to be funny, are we chap? I’m bloody livid. I’ll wreck you and your nan and all this funny business.’ Dixon moved towards him. JR took a swing and hit him perfectly at the bridge of his nose. Dixon fell moaning and didn’t get up. The group was looking at them, too drunk to care. They were smiling. Bertrand even shouted, ‘well done, fellow!’ Somehow the party went on like nothing of the fighting sort had happened. People were still dancing and cavorting like toads on a pond. ‘What an age,’ JR thought. Tired of all this atrocity and fallaciousness he finally took his leave, Christine with him, and headed for the exit Walking towards the door, Christine around his arm he whispered to her, ‘it’s my turn to be lucky.’She kissed him on the cheek and they disappeared into the night.
This book is invariably described as a comedy. Well, there's no doubt that it's often very funny, but to me it read more as a philosophical novel about the nature of love; in particular, about the question of whether it is better, in romantic matters, to behave selfishly or unselfishly. As you will see in my review of Atlas Shrugged, this is a subject I find very interesting. Kingsley Amis's position is in some ways not that far from Ayn Rand's, but it's far more nuanced. In particular, Amis is clear that he thinks selfishness is only a virtue in romantic contexts, not in general. I liked the following passage. Jim, as usual not quite sober, has been asked by Christine, the girl of his dreams, if she should marry a man whom Dixon loathes.'Are you in love with him?''I don't much care for that word,' she said, as if rebuking a foul-mouthed tradesman.'Why not?''Because I don't know what it means.'He gave a quiet yell. 'Oh, don't say that; no, don't say that. It's a word you must often have come across in conversation and literature. Are you going to tell me it sends you flying to the dictionary every time? Of course you're not. I suppose you mean it's purely personal --- sorry, got to get the jargon right --- purely subjective.''Well it is, isn't it?''Yes, that's right. You talk as though it's the only thing that is. If you can tell me whether you like greengages or not, you can tell me whether you love Bertrand or not, if you want to tell me, that is.''You're still making it much too simple. All I can really say is that I'm pretty sure I was in love with Bertrand a little while ago, and now I'm rather less sure. That up-and-down business doesn't happen with greengages; that's the difference.''Not with greengages, agreed. But what about rhubarb, eh? What about rhubarb? Ever since my mother stopped forcing me to eat it, rhubarb and I have been conducting a relationship that can swing between love and hatred every time we meet.''That's all very well, Jim. The trouble with love is that it gets you in such a state you can't look at your own feelings dispassionately.''That would be a good thing if you could do it, then?''Why, of course.'He gave another quiet yell, this time some distance above middle C. 'You've got a long way to go, if you don't mind me saying so, even though you are nice. By all means view your own feelings dispassionately, if you feel you ought to, but that's nothing to do with deciding whether (Christ) you're in love. Deciding that's no different from the greengages business. What is difficult, and this time you really do need this dispassionate rubbish, is deciding what to do about being in love if you are, whether you can stick the person you love enough to marry them, and so on.''Why, that's exactly what I've been saying, in different words.''Words change the thing, and anyway the whole procedure's different. People get themselves all steamed up about whether they're in love or not, and can't work it out, and their decisions go all to pot. It's happening every day. They ought to realise that the love part's perfectly easy; the hard part is the working out, not about love, but about what they're going to do. The difference is that they can get their brains going on that, instead of taking the sound of the word "love" as a signal for switching them off. They can get somewhere, instead of indulging in a sort of orgy of self-catechising about how you know you're in love, and what love is anyway, and all the rest of it. You don't ask yourself what greengages are, or how you know whether you like them or not, do you? Right?'
Do You like book Lucky Jim (1993)?
This novel was pure delight to read. I could quote any of a few dozen passages that left me giggling, but I'll keep it simple and just say that Amis wins, hands-down, my personal award for Best-Ever Description Of A Hangover: "Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by a secret police. He felt bad."
—Daniel Simmons
The titular hero's a bit of a bounder, and he's the best of the lot. Which is what makes this book such a joy to read. The women are a bit one-dimensional, although Margaret, with her collection of neuroses, would fit right in just about any Woody Allen film, even.... or especially, the unfunny ones. James "Jim" Dixon main concerns seem to be where his next cig and pint are coming from... and how to slack off his job of University lecturer, under probation. It's the latter which, although it takes place post World War II, would make him a post-modern hero. And make no mistake for despite, or because of his pettiness, his inaptitude, his bumbling, his huge ego and nonexistent self-esteem, he is our hero. Perhaps it is these qualities, along with Jim being a basically descent bloke and a nice guy, that endeared him to me and allowed me to see myself in him. Thoroughly enjoyable, with well written and witty remarks peppered throughout, seasoning a hearty and satisfying story. Now please pass me my fifth pint of bitters.
—Tracy Sherman
A smart, smart, funny book. Humor always lies in precision and detail, and Amis describes physiological suffering and boredom with uncanny exactness. The novel is also well-plotted, without any clunkiness until the end (where, as with too many very funny books, the author rolls up his sleeves and gets to the work of suspense-building). His characterizations, even in the wholesale satire of Professor Welch, are complicated and rich -- except for the women. Though Margaret is intriguingly inconsistent, there's no discernible psychology in her, and no genuine interest in either the protagonist or the author to explore her perspective. And Jim is, perhaps, a bit too lucky after all -- as rewards for his honest cynicism fall into his lap like manna.
—Will Miller
