Old Devils

A great book it may not quite be, but the character of Alun Weaver is worth the price of admission. He's the "professional Welshman" with the mane of snow-white hair who gets paid to wax nostalgic on TV and radio about Wales and its famous poet, Brydan -- Brydan being a deceased lout clearly modeled on Dylan Thomas. Alun's a phony and a womanizer and yet still the irresistable alpha male in his little group of friends. Everything is more fun (and less predictable) when he's around, even if he might try to get your wife alone in the back room when you aren't looking. The great comic scenes in the book all involve Alun, his line of smooth, practiced public patter about Wales and about Brydan, and his private contempt for Wales, for Brydan, and possibly himself. Here he is brushing off an overeager fan of Brydan's from Bethgelert, Pennsylvania: "Dear, dear, there are Welshmen all over the world, aren't there? Saxons, give up hope of finding a pie under the sun that we harmless folk don't contrive to slide our sly fingers into. Carry my warmest cousinly greetings to the Celts of Bethgelert, Mr. Pugh." Later, when the fan proves too persistent, Weaver drops the persona just long enough to see him off for good with a harsh, funny expletive and an obscene gesture. Other reviewers mention not being familiar with Wales, but I'm not sure that's such a handicap here. The wisecracks about Wales and Welshmen are from characters who love and hate their provincial home turf, as many people do for reasons of their own no matter what the town or country. Don't let that stop you from reading this book.

There is a secret humor within the confines of this book which I feel to be left out of - for instance how much different are the Welsh from the British and in what way? And, that premise, let alone others, is the thrust of this British satire dealing with four couples who pre-marital (and one post-marital) relationships make them at ease and ill at ease when they congregate long after their trysts, when their own children are the age they were when they sowed their wild oats. Pub crawling, and honoring poets of Welsh ancestry, deliver dialogue between the husbands which Amis so artfully conjures, Over and over again, this book reminded me of McCall Smith's "44 Scotland Street" series in which people - like this book - meet and discuss topics of interest and occasionally run into folly or irony, and occasionally run into a scant argument. I must think that McCall Smith is influenced by this writer whose works predate his by decades. Sometimes it feels trifling to be hanging out with the same people in a small town on all occasions. Amis cleverly distills this feeling with "You wonder why on earth you go, especially when you've got there and find it's exactly like it always is, and then you realize that's why you went." In small or large environs, we always know that your true good friends can be counted on the right hand's digits. As the past lives entangle with the present, good and bad arises. Each character seems to be highly affected by the return of noted local poet Alun and temptress (in an ivory girl way) wife of local lore, Rhiannon. Their strolls down memory lane uncover memories which had been buried or not discussed for decades, and the resurrection often is invigorating. But, the invigorating event often prescribes other concepts - such as realization of age and mortal infirmities Just for the dialogue, this book remarkably allows you to be the "fly on the wall" as the common and uncommon Welsh speak to one another in pubs, homes and elsewhere. You sense you know so much more about that little known land, even though little of that land is discussed or revealed. Instead, you witness their responses to daily events, and admire how they differently treat the same and seem less . . . less. . . belabored by "it all." This relaxed spirit is something which McCall Smith seems to deliver equally well. If you like McCall Smith, you will like this book. If you like witty dialogue which humorously displays elders in the sunset years, again this is your book. It is fun on many accounts.

This book is about everything-- How can you sum up life near the end? Is it possible to change, and if so, is it worth the bother? etc. It left me with shivers. It seemed an innocent, comic enough read at first, with devestating insights tossed casually in among descriptions of curmudgeonly drunkenness and inter-sexual miscommunication. By the end, it has turned into something else, a book about death and love imbued with humor. I found it much more meaningful and poignant in the end than Martin's postmodern gimmickry and suspect it will stay with me for some time.

Kingsley famously is said to have never finished any of his son Martin's novels and even to have thrown one against the wall in exasperation. As a fan of both father and son, I have always thought that the reason was because Martin's prose is more colloquial and has more spontaneous energy than his father's, i.e. is more modern. Well, Old Devils shows me that Kingsley can be extremely colloquial, even rambling, while showing off his customary wit and rancor. You will grin and reread moments as you trek across Wales, learning what is it like to be old and full of regret. If you love Lucky Jim, try this. Otherwise, go to Lucky Jim first.

Rare is the book that leaves one red-eyed with laughter. Rarer still the book that turns the same embarrassing trick (I try to avoid reading this book in public), after a dozen dog-eared readings. The aging Weavers, also-ran poet Alun and trophy-wife Rhiannon, return to a small Welsh hornet's nest after fair-to-middling success in London. Rakish Alun, with enough of his hair left to engender envy, but lacking the stature that would safely have hoisted him above the slings and arrows of envy's snipery, is asking for it. Kingsley Amis (the millionaire's father), apparently as cynical a wit as ever there was, masters his prose as well as he shepherds his readers' use of it, wise to the fact that no fool is half so funny as a loved one. The reader is made to love the titular devils, logy duffers all, of "The Old Devils", giving the lie to the very concept of so-called "identity fiction" (i.e.: WASPS prefer reading about WASPS; Gay Blacks about Gay Blacks). These doddering Welsh cranks could hardly be less like this particular reader, but Amis fits their false teeth in my mouth and wedges their swollen ankles into my shoes with clubby, back-patting authority. Peer through his microscope into this acre or two of Wales and you will be jarred with a salutary sight: life as we know it. He was an old enough devil himself to pull the trick off. (That there also seem present autiographical clues to Amis' own less-than-placid second marriage is beneath our concern, correct?)