Other People Read Online Free Page B
Author: Martin Amis
wonder what they're thinking about when they're not being drunk, that's what they're thinking about: being drunk.
Most of them know some things about why they can't bear being themselves, and some of them know a lot. But they all think they know things that other drunks don't know, and they think they are special. They are wrong about that. They aren't special: they're drunks, and all drunks know the same things. It seems sadder and more interesting from their end. It is, too, in a sense. They all have their reasons, and some of their reasons are good. I don't blame anybody for being one.
It's my theory that everybody would be a drunk if they could bear to get that way. We'd all feel so much better if we were drunk all the time. But it's very hard going, getting to be a drunk. Only drunks seem to be able to manage it.
I'm forever having to cope with these rather puzzling and regrettable people. You'll be running into a few more of them too. But all under my control, of course, all under my protection and control.
• • •
Sharon was telling Mary why she liked a few drinks every now and then—it was because of her nerves, she explained, together with her partiality to a good time—when without much warning the buildings dropped back to reveal a great breezy rift in the stacked and staggered city. Only a few arched, magical streets had been selected to ride this swathe of air. It made Mary's body hum; she would have turned and tried to run again but Sharon urged her on, unterrified. As they walked up the wide entrance to the sky Mary looked downwards and saw that the turbid tract beneath them was in fact alive, boiling, throwing bits of itself restlessly in the air, as if to catch the screaming birds that swerved and hovered just above its surface, taunting, enraged.
'It's too big,' said Mary.
'Pardon? I love the river. Go quietly, sweet Thames. We're going to the other side,' she explained, nodding towards the hulked structures gaping like battlements on the far shore. 'We're going home first, then I'm taking you up the pub.'
Mary wondered what these places would be like as she speeded up and followed Sharon south.
'We're home!' shouted Sharon.
Mary stood behind her in the cuboid vestibule. So this was what it was like on the inside: they were home. Everything was padded or reinforced, and it was hotter than she had thought it would be.
Immediately a half-glass door flew open further up the passage. A man who combined the attributes of being very small and very big peered out, let his head jerk back in consternation, then came bowling down the passage towards them.
'No you don't, my girl,' he said rumblingly. 'Come on—out, out, out!'
'Ah come on, don't be so mean' cried Sharon as the man began to crowd her back towards Mary and the door.
'You don't belong here!'
'But this is my bloody home.'
Although Sharon was far more redoubtable than the man with whom she clumsily grappled, it was clear that all strength and stubbornness were melting from her face. Sharon looked like somebody who had yet to do all the things that Sharon had done. We're going to get put outside again, thought Mary—no question. But then Sharon's features twisted back through their layer of time, and as if in response her shoulders performed a similar convulsion, causing the little round man to give a harsh shout and lie down very quickly on the floor.
'See? See?' he said.
'Oh Dad, get off, I didn't touch you!' As she leant over him, with every appearance of solicitude, a leg shot out from beneath her and suddenly the two of them had formed a thrashing tangle at Mary's feet.
'Mother!' he yelled. 'Lord help me somebody!'
'What's happening now' said a voice full of exhausted compliance. A woman appeared at the doorway and limped speedily into the light. 'Murdering her own father now, is she? I see,' she said in the same tone.
A pudgy hand slithered free of the panting combatants on the floor. The new arrival took the opportunity of
Most of them know some things about why they can't bear being themselves, and some of them know a lot. But they all think they know things that other drunks don't know, and they think they are special. They are wrong about that. They aren't special: they're drunks, and all drunks know the same things. It seems sadder and more interesting from their end. It is, too, in a sense. They all have their reasons, and some of their reasons are good. I don't blame anybody for being one.
It's my theory that everybody would be a drunk if they could bear to get that way. We'd all feel so much better if we were drunk all the time. But it's very hard going, getting to be a drunk. Only drunks seem to be able to manage it.
I'm forever having to cope with these rather puzzling and regrettable people. You'll be running into a few more of them too. But all under my control, of course, all under my protection and control.
• • •
Sharon was telling Mary why she liked a few drinks every now and then—it was because of her nerves, she explained, together with her partiality to a good time—when without much warning the buildings dropped back to reveal a great breezy rift in the stacked and staggered city. Only a few arched, magical streets had been selected to ride this swathe of air. It made Mary's body hum; she would have turned and tried to run again but Sharon urged her on, unterrified. As they walked up the wide entrance to the sky Mary looked downwards and saw that the turbid tract beneath them was in fact alive, boiling, throwing bits of itself restlessly in the air, as if to catch the screaming birds that swerved and hovered just above its surface, taunting, enraged.
'It's too big,' said Mary.
'Pardon? I love the river. Go quietly, sweet Thames. We're going to the other side,' she explained, nodding towards the hulked structures gaping like battlements on the far shore. 'We're going home first, then I'm taking you up the pub.'
Mary wondered what these places would be like as she speeded up and followed Sharon south.
'We're home!' shouted Sharon.
Mary stood behind her in the cuboid vestibule. So this was what it was like on the inside: they were home. Everything was padded or reinforced, and it was hotter than she had thought it would be.
Immediately a half-glass door flew open further up the passage. A man who combined the attributes of being very small and very big peered out, let his head jerk back in consternation, then came bowling down the passage towards them.
'No you don't, my girl,' he said rumblingly. 'Come on—out, out, out!'
'Ah come on, don't be so mean' cried Sharon as the man began to crowd her back towards Mary and the door.
'You don't belong here!'
'But this is my bloody home.'
Although Sharon was far more redoubtable than the man with whom she clumsily grappled, it was clear that all strength and stubbornness were melting from her face. Sharon looked like somebody who had yet to do all the things that Sharon had done. We're going to get put outside again, thought Mary—no question. But then Sharon's features twisted back through their layer of time, and as if in response her shoulders performed a similar convulsion, causing the little round man to give a harsh shout and lie down very quickly on the floor.
'See? See?' he said.
'Oh Dad, get off, I didn't touch you!' As she leant over him, with every appearance of solicitude, a leg shot out from beneath her and suddenly the two of them had formed a thrashing tangle at Mary's feet.
'Mother!' he yelled. 'Lord help me somebody!'
'What's happening now' said a voice full of exhausted compliance. A woman appeared at the doorway and limped speedily into the light. 'Murdering her own father now, is she? I see,' she said in the same tone.
A pudgy hand slithered free of the panting combatants on the floor. The new arrival took the opportunity of