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Anke Reuter ankereuter — Let me begin by saying that this novel is certainly well worth the money -- a masterpiece always is. I hardly know where to begin as I was so moved by this literary tour de force on fiat currency. Martin Amis is a writer's writer, a novelist's novelist, a poet's poet. The syntax is elegant, exquisite, delicious, a joy to read -- it's a book you want never to end. Amis worked hard and even fought to add value to every single word in this allegorical novel or as William H. Gass said, you will discover "a world in every word." John Self is not himself. He suffers debilitating fits of unwellness which all trace back inevitably and prolifically to money, the primary driver of his existence. He is the penultimate lout, an oaf, a drunk, a brutish womanizer, a first-rate hedonist and producer of pornographic films -- he is the penultimate anti-hero of the late 20th century and we also see his cousins who bear a strong resemblance to the protagonists who populate the novels of JP Donleavy. John Self is victim of every shallow relationship and makes every mistake in the book but he just can't help himself -- he's only human. He is driven senseless, nearly out of his mind, by money to become an agent of his own demise, his own doom, his own destiny. John Self drives a car which model is branded a Fiasco and it is prone to capricious fits and starts, breakdowns of every variety, unreliable, expensive to repair and perpetually riding along the brink of disaster. Myriad memorable quotes haunt this epic, picaresque, existential, tragicomic allegory. "Do you want to know the meaning of life? Life is an aggregate, an aggregate of all the lives that have ever been lived on the planet Earth." Ultimately, John Self is responsible for the pain of every sin he commits which intrigue by virtue of their seemingly infinite variety -- how can one man inherit so much chaos and suffer such crisis over one midlife? If only he could end the pain and suffering which cause him to ponder his own suicide at the bloody hands of banknotes -- the ultimate suicide note. At one point the pornographic film producer, who considers himself an artist, discovers this: "But the clouds obey their natural functions and do not know or care how beautiful they are. What does know, what does care about its own beauty? Only beautiful women -- oh yeah, and artists, I suppose, real artists, not the sack, piss, con and bullshit varieties that I've always had to work my way around. I am an artist -- an escape artist." Aren't we all? One of many brilliant strokes in the story line is the repeated meeting of John Self with the author in a literal and allegorical chess match. If character is destiny, then it was bound to happen sometime. The dialogue is rich, real and idiosyncratic ripe with wit, honesty and meaning. The storyline is a labyrinth in which it is most agreeable to wander and come out right in the end, it all comes out in the wash. The odd, richly nuanced characters are credibly and honestly cast fresh off the streets of New York and London. I was genuinely thrilled finally to discover Martin Amis and really can't recommend him more highly as a post-modern master. Fish out your wallets and pay the price in hard currency because "Money" by Martin Amis is absolutely priceless.