Literary interlude

    With a soft pal­pit­a­tion the small screen had fizzed into life—and there it was, the Royal Wedding, the crowd-ribbed Mall, the sun, and the horses get­ting people to the church on time. Blushing and glan­cing down­wards in the glare of all this his­tory, Lady Diana cruised slowly up the aisle, her tot­ter­ing dad at her side and the pock­et brides­maids smirk­ing in her wake. There was Charles, my age, stand­ing uni­formed among the ram­rod princes. Is Fat Paul right? Has Charles giv­en her one already? He’s going to give her one tonight—that’s for sure. As I twis­ted in my seat and muttered to myself I found I kept look­ing Martin’s way. The lips were par­ted, sus­pen­ded, the eyes heavy and unblink­ing. If I stare into his face I can make out areas of waste and fatigue, the moon­spots and bone­shad­ow you’re bound to get if you hang out in the twen­ti­eth cen­tury. Of course, you do see people who appear to be quite unaf­fected by all this, by the tim­ing of their time travel, not just their own jour­ney but the plan­et’s par­al­lel travel through time. They have a col­our. You nev­er see them in the streets, not in the streets plur­al. That col­our, it looks like the sheen of health or sun or gim­micked youth but it is only the col­our of money. Money softens the fall of life, as you know. Money breaks the fall. Anyway, Martin has­n’t got that col­our. And neither have I. And neither have you. Shake. Princess Diana has it. She is nine­teen years old, just start­ing out. There she goes now, gath­er­ing her­self into the car­riage while the horses stamp. All England dances. I looked at Martin and —I swear, I promise—I saw a grey tear glint in those heavy eyes. Love and mar­riage. The horses tick­ing down the long slide. 

—Martin Amis, Money: A Suicide Note, 1984