shitmycatsread:

Chloe: “Oh Martin, you sweet and prickly pervert. You master of the nasty, the hilariously vile, the deliciously wrong—we want to nuzzle you, despite your inevitably British teeth. You’re probably the only person alive, except for maybe Edward St. Aubyn, who could spin incest for darkly comedic chills. (I’ve a sister, but we’re the picture of innocence; the occasional spoonage, tender grooming, nothing more.) The prose in Success has us running for the bedroom dresser to run our not-cut-in-quite-a-while claws down the deep furrows we’ve already dug in the wood, when ecstatically overexcited. From what sick and brilliant puddle do you pull a gooey gem like this, Martin? 

‘Not much warmer in here, I’ll check the Thermaco,’ says the pepper-haired man to the faintly moustachioed, pungently menopausal hillock of a woman through whose doomed forestry he has cantered baying for a decade of neuter nighttimes.

This is a novel about foster brothers, class divides, dirty sex, alcoholism, hopelessness, career despair, sad orgies. But much of all it’s a novel with language so lush and fertile that it squishes, it bounces, it’s moist, it breaths and belches. Scott has a whole shelf of Amis books that he ‘accidentally borrowed’ from the American library in Prague, circa 2003—the plane was due, there was no time, in the suitcase they go—and we look forward to meowing down on them one by one.”