The New Normal: Martin Amis’s The Pregnant Widow

August 6, 2010 | 2 books mentioned 2 4 min read

It is the summer of 1970, a “hot, endless, and erotically decisive summer,” and Keith Nearing—twenty-year-old University-of-London-student (English Literature), occupying “that much disputed territory between five foot six and five foot seven”—takes up residence in an Italian castle, accompanied by his girlfriend Lily—“5’5”, 34-25-34,” also a fellow student (law), on-again after a brief but fraught respite initiated by Lily’s desire to “act like a boy”—and Lily’s best friend, the nobly-born and enticingly-named Scheherazade—“5’10”, 37-23-33,” only very recently transformed from an unremarkable, bespectacled do-gooder into a swan-necked, amply-bosomed goddess. And because vital statistics, as Keith well knows, are destiny, his own fate seems already determined: he will feel bound to Lily, bound by gratitude and compatibility and history; he will desire Scheherazade, desire her madly, greedily, recklessly.

coverThis is the basic premise of Martin Amis’s The Pregnant Widow, and it is a simple premise really: a love triangle powered by youthful lust and a suitably exotic locale. Then again, maybe not so simple, for Keith is, of course, “a K in a castle,” which lends the proceedings an air of ominous possibility. And there is the matter too of the time, the historical context, the summer of 1970, portentous beginning of the Age of Narcissus, the self-reflective, self-absorbed, seemingly endless “All and Now” follow-up to the Age of Aquarius, whose tentative stirrings have given way to full-on revolution. (You know how sexual intercourse began in 1963, sometime around the release of The Beatles’ first LP? Well, by the time we get to our castle in Montale, The Beatles have broken up.) And revolutions, well, revolutions are…complicated, cutting a swath of collateral damage, and The Pregnant Widow—subtitle: “Inside History”—chronicles the sublime chasm between world orders new and old, the “long night of chaos and desolation” that must pass “between the death of the one and the birth of the other.” (This vision of destruction comes courtesy of the philosopher Alexander Herzen, whose observation that “the departing world leaves behind it, not an heir, but a pregnant widow” also lends the novel its title.)

Here then are the clauses of the Revolutionary Manifesto, as documented after-the-fact (though the bulk of the book focuses on the crucial summer, the narrative reaches into the present-day):

  1. “There will be sex before marriage.”
  2. “Women, also, have carnal appetites.”
  3. “Surface will start tending to supersede essence.”
  4. Sex will be separated from feeling, much like feeling was long ago detached from thought, and sex will also be separated from thought.

How Keith will navigate the new normal, find his footing on terrain much longed for but little understood, furnishes the narrative’s true interest. This is not so say that The Pregnant Widow is preoccupied with Big Ideas at the expense of development and action; there is, in fact, much by way of plot.

The castle—property of Scheherazade’s thirty-year-old uncle, Jorquil (“it was that kind of family”)—is equipped with wings and turrets and a pool, where the newly beautiful, newly liberated Scheherazade sunbathes topless and learns to love her own reflection, but it quickly grows crowded. As the summer gets underway, Keith, Lily, and Scheherazade are intermittently joined by Whitaker and Amen, an older English expat and his eighteen-year-old Libyan boyfriend; by the Scheherazade-admiring Adriano, a dashing aristocrat, who also happens to be 4’10”; by the Dakotan divorcee Prentiss, who has in tow her recently adopted twelve-year-old Mexican daughter, Conchita, and her grossly obese helpmate, Dodo; by the Sphinx-like Gloria Beautyman—“5’5”, 33-22-37”— whose riddle is concealed behind a body joining a dancer’s upper half with a bottom that earns her the nickname “Junglebum;” by Timmy, Scheherazade’s erstwhile boyfriend, returning from a stint in Jerusalem, where he had gone to convert the Jews; by Rita, known as “the Dog” (because “she reminds you of a dog”), a proud warrior of the Sexual Revolution. These interlopers lend the novel a Dickensian texture, an impression further abetted by their tendency towards resonant if improbable names (though this is of course also quite consistent with Amis’s typical style) and memorable quirks. They take in the sights and the swimming, the splendid dinners and the lovely grounds, and, in return, they full-heartedly immerse themselves in castle life, sometimes aiding, sometimes impeding Keith’s schemes to seduce Scheherazade without hurting the suspicious Lily.

coverWill Keith succeed? Perhaps the more pertinent question is, will Keith survive? Will Keith—literally the orphaned son of a pregnant widow, his father having died in a car accident on his way to the hospital, his bereaved mother quickly following in childbirth—emerge intact, integrated in thought and feeling? Will he master and navigate and accept the new ideology, the new world order his moment in history makes him heir to? Armed with nothing more than the English literary canon, Keith at first seems to stand little chance. Clarissa, he surmises, is boring, with its “one fuck in two thousand pages,” its heroine who must die of shame. But Keith’s reading and Keith’s experiences finally prove that revolutions in sex, like revolutions in literature, change only the surface, the wording, not the import, and though The Pregnant Widow could never be confused for, say, an Austen novel, there is something old-fashioned about it. Perhaps it is its sincerity, a real attempt to tell some essential truth, a truth at once of its time and timeless. Perhaps it is its investment in its characters and its worldview. Or its quiet humor, funny and cutting and sly. Or its intelligence, its knowingness, which never seems pretentious or irrelevant. Which is a long way to say that there is much to recommend it.

A great deal has been said, in recent reviews of The Pregnant Widow, about Amis’s return to form, his artistic success after a series of disappointments. (Indeed, there was some surprise when the book was conspicuously left off the Man Booker Prize longlist.) Like Philip Roth, to whom he has been compared since the beginning of his career, Amis seems to be initiating his sixties by embarking on an ambitious, historically-minded project with keen insight and masterly sentences. But this is, of course, speculation. Something more definitive then: The Pregnant Widow is a stunning book; it contains within it all that is best in the English novel.

lives in Brooklyn. She works at the Gallatin School of Individualized Study and is a contributing editor for The Forward.


  1. “The Pregnant Widow is a stunning book…” to the extent that its leaden pages (so difficult to lift) induce a torpor previously unknown to readers of Martin Amis. Martin tries and fails to raise the stakes by exaggerating irrelevant measurements (he could *double* the diameters of the boobs and arses, while further slashing the height of the novel’s Amisian, slapstick dwarf, without changing much) and tossing a sentence of pretentiously-melodramatic foreshadowing in the breach between *every* sub-section or movement . He souses the concoction with pedantry (all those etymologies plus the absurdly-learned, too-knowing dialogue from 20-somethings!). And the rhythm is just off. It plods, man. Momentum nil.

    Amis even fails, miserably, in The Pregnant Widow, at the postmodern-novelist’s secret little sweepstakes: trying to equal Nabokov’s too-famous parenthetical ( “(picnic, lightning)” ). Martin’s entry in this game is there in the last paragraph on page 208: “(fast convertible, summer rain)”. Christ, Mart: no.

    But the greatest failure of The Pregnant Widow is the book’s premise, a dud diagnosis of The Sexual Revolution as a case of “girls behaving like boys.” Which is way off. A bunch of Hippie Chicks giving in to their Alpha Males’ fantasies of swapping, and polygamy, and the chicks getting it on with each other, does not a reversal in Gender Roles make… and it wasn’t even new in the 1960’s. Just ask Joseph Smith. Or Bloomsbury.

    What was “revolutionary” about the Sexual Revolution was the fact that, for the first time in history, entire postcodes of the hoi polloi were enjoying Sex at the kink-level, and mobility, and variety, and relative lack of responsibility… of the Aristocratic Classes. Martin, neither blueblood nor working-class (and super-involved with himself, at the time) simply failed to take note of the distinction. The book fairly reeks of this ongoing obliviousness.

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