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A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man-or this woman-may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete-after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.
Amis and Eagleton
“strip-searching people who look like they’re from the Middle East or from Pakistan”, preventing Muslims from travelling, and further down the road, deportation.
“Not the ramblings of a British National Party thug,” writes Terry Eagleton, professor of cultural theory at Manchester University, “but the reflections of Martin Amis, leading luminary of the English metropolitan literary world.”
Eagleton’s words are partly in response to Amis’s 2006 essay, “The Age of Horrorism”.
But, according to an article in The Independent, Professor Eagleton also has some thoughts on Martin Amis’s father, Kingsley, describing him as “a racist, anti-Semitic boor, a drink-sodden, self-hating reviler of women, gays and liberals”