John Crace digests Martin Amis's new novel The Zone of Interest down to 600 words, and wonders if he was wise to return to Nazi Germany and the Holocaust
Keith is now the wrong side of 50. Washed up. Ignored. All he can do is write the same book over and over again
As I grow older, I find my style has mellowed. I am no longer constrained by my inflated sense of self. I can write of generalisations. I can write of love. Russian love.
"I'm off out, me," he shouted to Russia. Xan Meo looked up to see clouds like trails of spermatozoa. "Oh God," he groaned. "I've been dumped in an ideological 1980s fictional cul-de-sac."
I write both to commemorate my father and to set the record straight. This will involve me in the indulgence of certain bad habits. Name dropping is one of them. But I've been indulging in this, in a way, ever since I first said, "Mart".