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At such moments Self sounds the novel's underlying theme: a culture geared to profit from the immediate gratification of egos and nerve endings is not a culture at all, but an addiction. As an addict, he discovers that bad habits and ignorance are the bars of self-imprisonment. "Look at my private culture," he cries. "It really isn't very nice in here. And that is why I long to burst out of the world of money and into--into what? Into the world of thought and fascination. How do I get there? Tell me, please. I'll never make it by myself. I just don't know the way."
Self disapproves of his life, but as long as the cash rolls in he is powerless to change. Moreover, his swilling and wenching take place in societies where shame is archaic and judgmental a dirty word. Overdue for his flight, Fielding Goodney simply delays the plane with a phony bomb scare: "I always do it when I'm running late. They grill the latecomers but not if you're first-class. It's not economical." A Los Angeles housewife interrupts Self and a prostitute in a parked car with "Hurry it up, pal. You're in my drive!"
Amis introduces a contrasting character named Martin Amis, an English writer. He is everything that Self is not: disciplined, patient, and well read. He is also a modish literary distraction from technical problems inherent in plotless first-person narratives. Will Self ever direct a movie? Will he ever finish reading Animal Farm? Will the manna ever stop falling? The answers matter little, since Amis' buffoon is at his best when he is doing his worst.
Though the names of the novel's characters have the ring of Restoration comedy, Money owes much of its drive to contemporary American fiction. Unlike most British novelists, Amis projects a large and raucous vision. He seems to have learned his heightened personal voice from Saul Bellow, the humorous uses of inverted logic from Joseph Heller and his naughty bits from Philip Roth. In fact, Self can be just as shocking and funny as Alexander Portnoy, an accomplishment not likely to go unnoticed. Amis' new novel should have feminists calling for blood and entertainment packagers trying to raise the ghost of John Belushi.