Even in our
own more enlightened times, there
are always unavoidable emergencies. In Martin Amis’ Dead Babies, a “ghastly bark” springing from the lips of the
unfortunate Keith Whitehead signals the start of such a crisis.
In a tone of
mock-heroic formality, Keith begged the picnic’s pardon, and the conversation
cautiously resumed, what time awful quickenings started to occur inside his
stomach. It hissed, whooped, spat – Keith whistled popular tunes in an attempt
to drown its loud awakening; he was moreover obliged to squirm about on the
blankets in order to contain the balloon of air that romped friskily round his colon.
As the picnickers began actually to raise their voices to make themselves
heard, little Keith decided that he wouldn’t wait to see what his metabolism
was going to pull on him next. Hardly caring what sort of spectacle he made of
himself, he slipped some paper napkins into his pocket, stood up, and looked
quickly about him.
“Saw something interesting
– I’ve got to go, to see…”
No one stirred as
Keith took his leave, as he trotted down the hill under a heavy fire of eyes…
He walked a tormented
half-mile, becoming ever easier-to-please as regards possible sites, but only
after he had twice been brought to a kneeling position by the wedge of pain
that rocketed from his coccyx to his perineum did he turn and stare back
through the tent of nervous leaves. First removing his boots, then his trousers
(which required him to lie down on the ground and wriggle out of them like a
snake shedding its skin), Keith crept in between two dense bramble-bushes and
melted backwards against a severed trunk. A tight-chested grunt was followed by
a moan of ecstasy.
(Martin Amis – Dead Babies 1975)
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