Quotes from Martin Amis

Perhaps, at such moments, the sky is no more than the sum of the dirt that lives in our human eyes.

The father is dying, as did his (and as did his).

Addictions do come in handy sometimes: at least you have to get out of bed for them.

Suffering doesn't concern itself with the scale of other sufferings. It has no community sense. It isn't relative, is it. I can't be the only one to have noticed that. Whoever said it first – did they have more to say? The

Here's another joke: "She calls me up and says, 'Get over here. There's nobody home.' So I get over there, and guess what. There's nobody home.

How do you think the world popped into existence? - I'd say wee we are at least five Albert Einsteins away from answering this question.

My theory is - we don't really go that far into other people, even when we think we do. We hardly ever go in and bring them out. We just stand at the jaws of the cave, and strike a match, and quickly ask if anybody's there.

And now, at dusk, outside my window, the trees shake their heads like disco dancers in the strobe lights of nightlife long ago.

Now I have to lie on the bed for a few minutes and let the solitude gather round me once more.

When we wake up in the morning (he thought), it's the first task that lies ahead of us: the separation of the true from the false. We have to dismiss, to erase the mocking kingdoms made by sleep. But at the close of day it was the other way round, and we sought the untrue and the fictitious, sometimes snapping ourselves awake in our hunger for nonsensical connections.

Tennis: the most perfect combination of athleticism, artistry, power, style, and wit. a beautiful game, but one so remorselessly travestied by the passage of time.

a fantastic collision (collide: 'from col- "together" + laedere "to strike" Ã¢â'¬â"¢). It is what happens when darkness meets light, when experience meets innocence, when the false meets the true, when utter godlessness meets purity of spirit

London is full of short stories, long stories, epics, farces, sit-coms, soaps and squibs, walking round hand in hand.

And I still surfed on Manhattan static.

This is a true story but I can't believe it's really happening. It's a murder story, too. I can't believe my luck. And a love story (I think), of all strange things, so late in the century, so late in the goddamned day.

The night was electric - The night was in italics.

Tod ama le folle. Nelle folle puoi essere un capo senza che nessuno se ne accorga. [...] Con estasi e con sollievo si annulla nell'unità più grande, nella massa incandescente

Erections, as we all know, come to the teenager on a plate.

Demi's linguistic quirk is essentially and definingly female. It just is. Drawing in breath to denounce this proposition, women will often come out with something like, Up you! or Ballshit! For I am referring to Demi's use of the conflated or mangled catchphrase--Demi's speech-bargains: she wanted two for the price of one. The result was expressive, and you usually knew what she meant, given the context.

Achieved art is quite incapable of lowering the spirits. If this were not so, each performance of King Lear would end in a Jonestown.

I was informed by my viscera that now was the time to put my arm around her shoulders. I ignored them.

So this was all you got:the zooty sideburns and masturbator's pallor of an old Ted in a black suit and the secular obsequies.

Girls, in those days, couldn't do anything to you (they couldn't call the lawyers, the tabloids, the cops) except kill themselves or get pregnant. All they had was life: they could augment it, they could bear it away. They could subtract from it or they could add to it; and that was all.

Women can die gently -.. -. Men always die in torment. Why? Towards the end, men break the habit of a lifetime, and start blaming themselves, with full male severity. Women break a habit too, and start blaming themselves no longer. They forgive.