La flecha del tiempo

Por Martin Amis

El autor reconstruye la idea convencional del tiempo para explorar la naturaleza del pasado en una historia que empieza, se desarrolla y termina al revés. De esta manera, encontramos a un agonizante doctor Tod T. Friendly cuya muerte da comienzo a un viaje por aquella vida que tuvo varias identidades, no pocos secretos y una tan enigmática como sospechosa inquietud. En el laberinto temporal de esa fuga vemos cómo Friendly rompe con sus amantes y después se enamora de ellas, arruina a sus pacientes antes de que vayan a visitarlo y escapa de una culpa terrible de la que se ignora su impredecible por qué. John Young, Hamilton de Souza y Odilo Unverdorben, otros nombres de ese mismo hombre, van entonces de la vejez a la juventud hasta llegar al centro del origen: Auschwitz. En ese campo de concentración Amis refleja el tiempo, pero también la propia cultura contemporánea.

El resultado es una novela asombrosa y cruel, cuyo elegante nerviosismo sugiere que, tal vez, en la Historia sólo hay sentido si se altera el orden.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 21 dic 2010
• ISBN: 9788433943750

Martin Amis

Martin Amis (Swansea, 1949 - Florida, 2023) estudió en Oxford y debutó brillantemente como novelista con El libro de Rachel, galardonada en 1973 con el Premio Somerset Maugham, publicada en España (en 1985) por Anagrama, al igual que Otra gente,Dinero, Campos de Londres, La flecha del tiempo, La información, Tren nocturno, Niños muertos, Perro callejero, La Casa de los Encuentros, La viuda embarazada, Lionel Asbo.  El estado de Inglaterra y La zona de interés, los relatos de Mar gruesa, los ensayos de Visitando a Mrs. Nabokov, La guerra contra el cliché, El segundo avión y El roce del tiempo, y los libros de carácter autobiográfico Experiencia y Koba el Temible. Su última obra es Desde dentro.

Vista previa del libro

Índice

PORTADA

PRIMERA PARTE

I. LO QUE VA DE UN LADO A OTRO, NO SIGUE UN RUMBO FIJO

II. HAY QUE SER CRUEL PARA SER BUENO

III. COMO SOY CURANDERO, CUANTO HAGO ES CURATIVO

SEGUNDA PARTE

IV. SE HACE LO QUE SE PUEDE, QUE NO SIEMPRE ES LO MEJOR

V. AQUÍ NO HAY PORQUÉ

VI. MULTIPLÍQUESE CERO POR CERO, QUE SIGUE SALIENDO CERO

VII. ME QUIERE, NO ME QUIERE

TERCERA PARTE

VIII. PORQUE LOS PATOS ESTÁN GORDOS

POSFACIO

CRÉDITOS

A Sally

Primera parte

I. LO QUE VA DE UN LADO A OTRO, NO SIGUE UN

RUMBO FIJO

Desperté del más negro sueño y me encontré rodeado de médicos... Médicos norteamericanos: percibí su vigor, tan incontrolable como su profuso vello corporal, y también el ominoso tacto de sus ominosas manos, manos de médico, fuertes, limpias, aromáticas. Aunque mi parálisis era ya casi total, advertí que podía mover los ojos. No es que se movieran mucho, pero se movían. Los médicos parecían aprovecharse de mi inmovilidad. Tuve la impresión de que hablaban de mi caso, pero también de otros asuntos relacionados con su copioso tiempo libre: de sus aficiones y de cosas por el estilo. Y entonces me vino a la mente un pensamiento que me sorprendió por su sencillez y su sinceridad, rotundo, claro: ¡cómo aborrezco a los médicos! A cualquier médico. A todos los médicos. Consideremos el conocido chiste de judíos, en el que una anciana corre aturdida por la orilla del mar, gritando: «¡Socorro! ¡Mi hijo, el médico, se ahoga!» Divertido, diría yo. Es su orgullo, diría yo, lo divertido: es más grande que su amor. Pero ¿a santo de qué enorgullecerse de esos niños médicos? (¿por qué no avergonzarse, por qué no un incrédulo terror?): amigos íntimos de los bacilos y las triquinas, de los traumas y la gangrena, con su repugnante vocabulario y su instrumental no menos repugnante (el ensangrentado peto de goma, colgando de un gancho en la pared). Son los porteros de la vida. ¿Cómo es posible que haya quien quiera serlo?

Los médicos que rodeaban mi cama llevaban, por descontado, una indumentaria mucho más deportiva; emanaba de ellos una vaga confianza en sí mismos, como la que proporciona un bronceado perfecto, y esa unanimidad que inspira la seguridad de ir en grupo. Dadas mis circunstancias, sus modales podrían haberme resultado insultantemente despreocupados. Sin embargo, la propia insulsez de aquellos médicos, o corredores de medio fondo, o culturistas, o lo que fuesen aquellos expertos en lozanía, me infundió ánimos; seguramente, esto tuvo que ver con su sonriente propensión a darse buena vida. La buena vida, al fin y al cabo, es mejor que la mala vida. Da la debida importancia al windsurf, por ejemplo, a la placentera compra de valores de futuro asegurado y al tiro con arco, y al vuelo en ala delta, y a la buena mesa. Mientras dormía, soñé con un... No, no fue así. Lo explicaré de otra manera: presidía las tinieblas de las que yo había despertado una figura, una silueta masculina, envuelta en un aura inconmensurable, imposible de definir, que encerraba cosas tales como la belleza, el terror, el amor, la inmundicia y, sobre todo, el poder. Esta silueta o esencia masculina parecía llevar algo así como una bata blanca (una bata blanca y almidonada, impecable, de médico). Y botas negras. Y también una especie de sonrisa. Pienso que aquella imagen tal vez fuera un fantasmagórico negativo del Médico Número Uno, con su chándal negro, sus robustas zapatillas deportivas, y la mueca de satisfacción que esbozó al señalarme el pecho con un movimiento de cabeza.

El tiempo pasó entonces sin dejar ni rastro, pues se había entregado por completo a la lucha, con la cama cubierta de redes como una trampa o un foso, y la sensación de iniciar un terrible viaje, un viaje hacia un secreto terrible. ¿Con qué tendría que ver el secreto? Con él, era con él: el hombre menos indicado en el momento menos indicado y en el lugar menos indicado. Era evidente que me iba fortaleciendo. Mis médicos venían y se iban, con las manos inertes y conteniendo la respiración, para admirar mis nuevos gorjeos y gimoteos, mis crispaduras más espectaculares, mis atléticas contorsiones. A menudo, había allí una enfermera, sola, en adorable vigilia. Su uniforme color crema crujía como si fuera de celofán, un ruido en el que sentí que podía apoyar todos mis anhelos y mi esperanza. Y es que por aquel entonces había mejorado notablemente y me sentía en plena forma. Nunca había estado mejor. Las sensaciones, con todos sus lujos, regresaron primero a mi costado izquierdo (de repente) y luego al derecho (con alegres circunvoluciones). Me gané incluso las alabanzas de la enfermera al arquear ágilmente la espalda, casi sin su ayuda, cuando me puso la cuña... De todos modos, seguí tendido allí, en un estado de festiva tranquilidad, durante no sé cuánto tiempo, hasta que llegó la mala hora... y los celadores. Con los doctores golfistas me las arreglaba como podía, y la enfermera era un regalo que no había merecido. Pero entonces vinieron los celadores, que me administraron dosis de aire y electricidad. Eran tres. Nada ceremoniosos. Entraron a toda prisa en la habitación, me envolvieron con mi propia ropa, hecho un guiñapo, y me dejaron tendido en el jardín. Hasta aquí, pase. Luego, con los mangos de una comba de saltar, parecidos a dos teléfonos (blanco... al rojo vivo), me soltaron una descarga en el pecho. Por último, antes de largarse, uno me besó. Creo que sé cómo llaman a este beso. Lo llaman el beso de la vida. Después, debí de desmayarme.

Y cuando volví en mí, fue con un ¡plop! bien audible en los dos oídos, y una intensa conciencia de mi soledad, y un sentimiento de amor y admiración por el estólido corpachón dentro del que estaba, el cual incluso en aquellos momentos iba a la suya, despreocupado, y trataba de estirarse todo lo que podía por encima de unos rosales para clavar en la pared de madera una enredadera que se había soltado. El corpachón se tomó su tiempo para colocar la enredadera; sus movimientos eran lentos; sí, realmente, sabía lo que se hacía. Hubiera querido relajarme y contemplar el jardín..., pero algo falla. Sí, algo falla: este cuerpo que me lleva se niega a obedecer mis órdenes. Mira a tu alrededor, le digo. Pero su cuello no me hace caso. Sus ojos tienen su propio programa. ¿Será algo grave? ¿Estamos bien? No me entró el pánico. Tuve que arreglármelas con la visión periférica; a falta de pan, buenas son tortas. Vi partículas de flora rizadas que bailoteaban temblorosas, como pulsaciones o débiles explosiones, a los lados de la cabeza. Y el ambiente que me rodeaba era de un verde pálido, un ambiente cerrado y adornado con lo que parecían marcas de agua, como... como los billetes americanos. Fui de un lado a otro, desgarbado, sin prisas, hasta que empezó a oscurecer. Dejé de cualquier manera las herramientas en el cobertizo. Un momento, espera. ¿Por qué entro en casa caminando hacia atrás? Espera. ¿Se pone el sol, o amanece? ¿Cuál... cuál es la secuencia del viaje que estoy haciendo? ¿A qué reglas obedece? ¿Por qué cantan los pájaros de ese modo tan raro? ¿Hacia dónde me encamino?

Sea como fuere, lo cierto es que se han establecido una serie de hábitos. Parece que poco a poco les voy cogiendo el tranquillo.

Así pues, aquí estoy, en la América de la ropa tendida y los buzones ante las casas, en la América inocua, en la América afable, de colores primarios, en donde se mezclan gentes de todas las procedencias y, si tú estás bien, pues yo también. Me llamo, ciertamente, Tod Friendly. Tod T. Friendly. Pero también estoy allí. Estoy ante los locales donde se reúne la inexperta juventud, o en la Ferretería Mundial de Hank, o en la extensión de césped que hay delante del blanco edificio del Ayuntamiento, sacando el pecho y con los brazos en jarras mientras me río silenciosamente: ¡ja, ja, ja! Porque yo soy así. Allí estoy. Estoy en la verdulería, en la oficina de correos, diciendo «¡Hola!» y «¡Hasta luego!» y «¡Bien, bien...!». Pero no es así del todo. Más bien suena como:

–Neib. Neib –dice la dependienta de la farmacia.

–Neib –me sumo a sus monosílabos–. ¿Lat éuq?

–Mm-mmm. Ísa, ísa –dice la dependienta mientras desenvuelve mi loción para el cabello. Mientras me voy caminando de espaldas, me llevo la mano al sombrero. Hablo sin volición, igual que hago todo lo demás. A decir verdad, me costó bastante darme cuenta de que el lamentable gorjeo que oía a mi alrededor era, en realidad, el lenguaje humano. ¡Diantre, si hasta las alondras y los gorriones parecen más dignos! Traduzco esa cacofonía humana por puro interés. Pronto le cogí el tranquillo. Ahora tengo mucha soltura, incluso puedo soñar en ese lenguaje. Hay otro lenguaje, un segundo lenguaje, aquí, en la cabeza de Tod. Algunas veces también soñamos en ese lenguaje.

Así pues, allá vamos, con el sombrero bien puesto y el mejor de los calzados, la Gaceta doblada bajo el brazo, pasando por delante de los cortos caminos privados para coches (EN APRETADA SUCESIÓN), de los buzones con sus nombres (Wells, Cohen, Rezika, Meleagrou, Klodzinski, Schering-Kahlbaum y muchísimos más), de la apacible ambición de todo hogar (Por favor, respete los derechos del propietario), de los autobuses llenos de críos a rebosar, del letrero amarillo: ATENCIÓN – ZONA ESCOLAR, y del perfil oscuro de ese jovencito alocado con la cartera de colegial aplastada contra el pecho (no mira a ninguna parte; claro, está demasiado ocupado corriendo; la cara, los ojos, todo él va inclinado hacia el suelo; no piensa en los automóviles: solo le interesa ejercer del modo más pleno posible su derecho al ejercicio físico). Cuando los críos pasan zumbando a mi lado en el supermercado, restregó su pelo revuelto con la casta caricia tradicional. Tod Friendly. No tengo acceso a sus pensamientos, pero sus emociones me arrastran como una avenida. Soy un cocodrilo en el ancho río de sus sentimientos. ¿Saben una cosa? Cada mirada, cada par de ojos, incluso cuando se entornan con sincero aprecio, hace blanco en algo que hay dentro de él; y percibo el calor del miedo y la vergüenza. ¿Es eso lo que me espera? El miedo de Tod, cuando me paro a analizarlo, verdaderamente, terrorífico. Y es inexplicable. Tiene que ver con su propia mutilación. ¿Quién podría hacer tal cosa? ¿Cómo podría evitarlo?

Fíjense en esto. Rejuvenecemos. En serio. Y nos fortalecemos. E incluso crecemos. No acabo de habituarme al mundo en que estamos. Todo resulta vagamente familiar, pero no inspira confianza. Ni la más mínima. Este es un mundo de errores, de errores diametrales. El resto de la gente rejuvenece también, pero se diría que le importa tan poco como a Tod. No le resulta contrario a sus intuiciones y un tanto desagradable, como me pasa a mí. Con todo, soy impotente: no puedo hacer nada, absolutamente nada. No me es posible convertirme en una excepción. ¿Llevarán los demás a alguien dentro de sí, un pasajero o un parásito como yo? Tienen suerte. Me juego cualquier cosa a que no tienen el mismo sueño que nosotros. Esa figura de la bata blanca y las botas negras. Tras su estela, una tempestad de viento y aguanieve, como una tormenta de almas.

Todos los días, cuando Tod y yo terminamos de leer la Gaceta, la devolvemos al quiosco. Me fijo bien en la fecha. Y ¿saben qué pasa?: después del 2 de octubre es 1 de octubre. Después del 1 de octubre es 30 de septiembre. ¿Cómo se explica eso? Se dice que los locos guardan en el interior de sus cabezas una película, o al menos un decorado, que ordenan y decoran, y por el que deambulan. Pero Tod está cuerdo, al menos en apariencia, y no vive solo en el mundo. Sin embargo, tengo la sensación de que esta película han empezado a pasarla por el final.

No soy totalmente inocente.

Por ejemplo, resulta que estoy equipado con una abundante información que no vale nada, o de cultura general, si así se prefiere. E = mc². La velocidad de la luz es de 335.000 kilómetros por segundo. ¡No es nada lenta! El universo es finito, pero ilimitado. En cuanto a los planetas, son Mercurio, Venus, la Tierra, Marte, Júpiter, Saturno, Urano, Neptuno y Plutón... ¡Pobre Plutón, bajo cero, subnormal, hecho de hielo y de roca, tan lejos del calor y de la luz! La vida no es un lecho de rosas. Está llena de altibajos. Triunfas en algunas ocasiones, eres derrotado en otras. A veces es ancha y llana. Otras veces hay que subirla cuesta arriba. Lo que va de un lado a otro, no sigue un rumbo fijo. 1066, 1789, 1945. Dispongo de un vocabulario soberbio (mónada, retráctil, necrópolis, palíndromo, antidesestabilizacionismo) y de un dominio imperturbable de las reglas gramaticales. El apóstrofo, en la frase inglesa «Please Respect Owner’s Rights», no está donde debería. (Y lo mismo pasa con el del cartel que se ve en la carretera, el que ensalza las excelencias de Rogers’ Liquor Locker e indica su situación.) Aparte de las palabras que denotan movimiento o proceso, que siempre me obligan a echar mano de las comillas («dar», «caer», «comer», «defecar»), el lenguaje escrito me resulta perfectamente comprensible, al contrario que el hablado. Ahí va otro chiste: «Ella me llama y me dice: Puedes venir. No hay nadie en casa. Así que voy para allá y ¿sabes qué pasa? Pues que no hay nadie en casa.» Marte es el dios de la guerra en la mitología romana. Narciso se enamoró de su propio reflejo..., de su propia alma. Si haces un trato con el diablo, y quiere que le entregues algo a cambio, no permitas que se lleve tu espejo. Tu espejo no, de ninguna manera, pues es tu reflejo, tu doble, el que comparte tus secretos. Una cosa hay que decir del diablo: obra por iniciativa propia y no se limita a obedecer órdenes.

Nadie podría acusar a Tod Friendly de estar enamorado de su propio reflejo. Al contrario, no soporta verlo. Se acicala al tacto: se afeita con maquinilla eléctrica y él mismo se corta el pelo con unas tremendas tijeras de cocina. ¡Sabe Dios qué aspecto tendrá! Hay en casa unos cuantos espejos, como cabría esperar, pero él no los consulta ni se enfrenta a ellos. De vez en cuando le veo de refilón en el escaparate oscurecido de una tienda; a veces también percibo su reflejo distorsionado en el cromado de un grifo o de un cuchillo. Hay que decir que mi curiosidad es avivada por una nerviosa ansiedad. Su cuerpo no parece nada prometedor: las épicas manchas café con leche en el dorso de las manos, el torso envuelto en carne fláccida que huele a pollo y a menta, los pies. Nos cruzamos con algunos espléndidos ejemplares de anciano americano por las avenidas de Wellport: orondos abuelos y veteranos y fornidos lobos de mar; en verdad, «magníficos». Tod no es magnífico. Todavía no. De momento, está bastante cascado; anda encorvado, mira de reojo y se siente avergonzado. ¿Y su cara? Bueno, pues ocurrió; de noche, entre dos pesadillas. Había llegado paso a paso hasta el cuarto de baño, a oscuras, y se desmoronó sobre el lavabo, desorientado, sin saber quién era, intentando sosegarse o recuperar la calma por medio del agua corriente. Tod soltó un gemido y se enderezó ante el espejo oscuro, y alargó la mano en busca del interruptor. Se entretiene demasiado, pensé. Debería hacerlo a la velocidad de la luz. ¡Venga, va! ¡Ahora...!

Esperaba verlo hecho una mierda, pero aquello fue ridículo. ¡Santo cielo! Realmente, estamos hechos una mierda, para qué negarlo. Parecemos una boñiga de vaca, de verdad. ¿Sería posible que aquello fuera una persona? Sí; lentamente, tomó forma: la cabeza de Tod. La flanqueaban dos grandes orejas como guitarras, y sobre su cuero cabelludo, que recordaba una piel de naranja, se enroscaban como gusanos sus ralos cabellos. Que, encima, son grasientos. Esto ya lo suponía: todas las mañanas embotella el mejunje que despiden y, cada dos meses o así, lleva el envase a la farmacia, donde le dan 3 dólares con 45 centavos por él. Y otro tanto hace con

Comentarios para La flecha del tiempo

[saschenka-316193 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Nazi doctor Tod Friendly's sordid life in reverse, from heart attack in small-town, innocuous and walled-off melting pot America, to conception in depressed, post WWI Solingen. Unexceptional in every way, Tod's moral compass depends upon the health of surrounding society (might makes right). 'You do what you do best, not what's best to do.' Amis: 'The offense was unique, not in its cruelty, nor in its cowardice, but in its style -- in its combination of the atavistic and the modern...at once reptilian and :logistical.' And although the offense was not definingly German, its style was. The National Sociialists found the core of the reptile brain, and built an autobahn that went there.'After reading half the book, one starts thinking in the reverse style. Good speed and direction, disorientation used to good effect; probably will not offer up new reactions upon later readings, operates at one level.

[curious_squid · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Oh Martin, you are so clever.
I am a sucker for experimental writing, and writing a narrative in reverse, might sound too gimmicky, but I found it quite such an interesting take.

The main character does seem flat and gets less like able as the book goes on, but the perspective was always thought provoking and compelling.

Overall I’d say that at times this book is funny, at times it’s dark- reallly dark.... But this is the kind of book that makes me love the 1001 list because I would have never read it on my own

[pilgrimjess · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

"Time, the human dimension, which makes us everything we are."'Time's Arrow' opens with the main character being dragged back from the brink of death by medics after a heart attack– and from then on he grows gradually ever more youthful until his eventual birth. As he grows younger, we learn that he was once a doctor who made his patients worse rather than better and has repeatedly changed his name as he moved West to New York from mainland Europe. It isn't long before we realise where he’s going (or coming from) – that he worked in the various camps across Poland where millions of people (mainly Jews) had been brought back to life and he had been a member of the Hitler Youth.The narrator exists inside the protagonist’s head and experiences everything he does, but is also separate from him. This allows the narrator to comment on events that he has had no power to influence, he doesn't know what is to come any more than the reader does. The use of the narrator allows the reader to consider the protagonists actions intellectually rather than emotionally.That is not to say that that this isn't an emotional read. The protagonist is a particularly dislikeable individual, before and after the war objectifying women and treating them with utter disdain, and one who reacts quite coldly to the death of his own daughter. But as you would expect, it is his wartime actions which is the real focus of this book and are the most difficult to comprehend. That events happen in reverse – bringing people to life rather than killing them – doesn't make them any less horrifying. We are reminded that these heinous acts weren't one off aberrations but instead played out over a number of years. The reverse timeline compels the reader to reassess events with which we think we are already familiar."Probably human cruelty is fixed and eternal, only styles change."However, whilst part of me admires the creative way that the author has tackled such harrowing events I cannot help but think that he was just too clever and ultimately trivialised them. It soon becomes apparent that in the later life the protagonist feels no guilt about his previous deeds and that he has seemingly escaped censure for them which made uncomfortable reading. I cannot help but think that he had perhaps somehow turned a new leaf, had lived relatively innocently post-war, it might have magnified the horror of his wartime deeds, if that is possible, then I too would have felt differently. Something other than complete contempt. I suspect that this is yet another of those Marmite books, you will either love or hate it. For me it was an OK read but as with so many by the author that I've read a confusing and underwhelming one. It was at least thankfully brief.

[scottcholstad · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

While I strongly prefer his London Fields, I tend to think this might be my second favorite of his, though not nearly as good. Still, strong postmodern literature. Recommended.

[xiaomarlo · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

A really trippy book. Amis was inspired by the scene in "Slaughterhouse-Five" that describes the bombing of Dresden in reverse, and decided to write the life of a Nazi war criminal backwards, starting as dying old man in a hospital bed, ending with birth. Darkly ironic and very poignant.

[jonfaith · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I had to drop a star. Bruised sleep revealed that I should not uphold my immediate image and adjust downwards. This situation was vivid in that I couldn't stop imaganing Amis in a smoking jacket writing about the Final Solution.

- Anyway -

A novel, a theme, that requires one to pass over it in silence. Marty refers to the Shoah as an autobahn to the reptilian mind. I tend to agree. Reading the dialogue in reverse was afeat. Language, sentences rather, are often so pailindromic.

[isabelx_21 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The book starts with Tod T. Friendly dying as an old man, surrounded by doctors. But then his life starts to replay backwards, watched by what seems to be a spirit living in his mind who is unaware of what happened before/will happen next. To start with the watcher finds the reversed life 'counterintuitive, and faintly disgusting', but later/early in Tod's life he describes events as though it is natural for a man to be regurgitating food at each meal and for Nazis to be helping bloodied Jews up from the ground as the windows of their shops reassemble from fragments.Very interesting.

[kristelh_15 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

[book:Time's Arrow|23031] by [author:Martin Amis|11337] published 1991 is the story of Dr. Tod T. Friendly, living in the United States, who once worked in Auschwitz as a doctor. The story is told in reverse chronology and makes the mere 165 pages a very laborious read. No doubt Martin Amis is a skilled writer but this is not the first book written about a man's life lived backwards because there is Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The difference in this case, the man is old and dying and maybe his life is flashing backwards and it is told by the narrating soul of the man. It is all very confusing. I can't really say I enjoyed the story. I felt that there was inconsistencies and the plot, story board and turning points were difficult using reverse chronology. My rating is 3.43

[soylentgreen23 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

A whole book running backwards. You would think it would tire you out, but Amis keeps hold of you from finish to start, never once relinquishing his hold, as the narrator's horrible beginnings slowly become clear.

[cat3lib · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

A rather self indulgent novel. The story of a nazi war criminal told backwards, thus wiping the slate clean. Not sure it would encourage me to read any more of Martin Amis.

[carmenere_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Tod Friendly dies in his garden in Massachusetts not far from the Alpha and Omega of highways, Route 6. He's not really Tod Friendly though because he is really John Young, but not for long as he changes his name several times before he is born. He dies a doctor and has been for many years, regardless of where or when he lived it all appears that he is a good doctor yet remember we're moving in the reverse so it all looks acceptable. The reader however knows where this is leading and mid century his career has taken him down a different path. At books conclusion, I'm disheartened. Aka Tod doesn't seem to comprehend what he has done and the punishment involved with it is never realized. If all our good seems bad and all our bad appears good, what does it all mean in the end. This arrow misses the target for me and leaves me befuddled.

[victorianh_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

At first I found the time moving backward sort of gimmicky, but then it became more interesting and thought provoking. It also made me slow down and ponder what I was reading. For example, a fat, dumpy druggie goes to the Vietnam war and comes back a clean-cut young man in good shape. Illustrates points that have been done countless times before in a novel way.

[mapninja · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Mindbending...

[william345 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Second reading. Just "brill," to use the Amis argot. Highly recommended.

[deerhorne · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I initially gave this book two stars, but after further thought I landed on three stars. The initial reaction was of extreme disappointment since the book started with so much potential. However, I think this story is a little better once you have time to let it all sink in--but not much better.Portraying this story from end to beginning was a clever trick which has been done by other authors more successfully. The narrator in this story is simply not the best vehicle for story progression (or regression). The narrator learns more as the story moves along while the main character loses experiences and unwinds--layer after layer.It's easy to know from the beginning what the secret is, and a lot of the excitement for me was to get past the big secret to see what led up to this awful point in time. Past the secret I expected the main character to be more human and somewhat more developed, which would contrast somewhat with the character's later revelations and trials.Even after reflecting on everything for a while after finishing, I still do not have any emotion towards the main character. Yes, he did awful things and ended life still having this as a part of him. There just isn't enough contrasting elements to make a better decision. The end of the story shows an very one-dimensional and shallow youth caught-up in the fervor of the times (somewhat) and there is no major transformation. Maybe the point was to unravel the character to a point of non-definition to show how complex we become over time as we add events and interactions to our lives. This thought made me add one star later.In regards to the narrator, I thought at first it was a non-judgmental observer which would simply tell the story as it was seen. However, very soon, the narrator knows English is being spoke backwards so it has to learn to flip the words around. I expected this much to happen so I didn't judge too harshly.However, my opinion of the narrator changed quickly when it was disgusted by the physical appearance of Irene later in her life. This reaction could only come from something human as to judge whether another person is physically attractive or not. The narrator expresses difficulty learning German, but backwards English was learned within a few pages.The dialog running backwards was necessary for conformity in the backwards-running time, but I found it annoying after a while as I had to read back through the dialog myself from end to beginning to compare the beginning to end.It's also hard to touch on the Holocaust without the book suddenly becoming about the Holocaust itself. If I maintain this story in review as a pure character study of one man's journey through life and not the events in his life, this is not a good journey. If I view the settings and events in addition to the character study, it's still not a good book.I do plan to re-read this book again at some future point. Hopefully I will pick-up more on a re-read and appreciate this book more.

[cayenneellis · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

Finished Time's Arrow by Martin Amis yesterday. Was COMPLETELY unimpressed. Ugh. In fact, I disliked it so much I didn't even bother to write an actual review. It was hard to follow, and generally uninteresting. I was not invested in the character and so I was not invested in the major pivotal plot point that I was waiting on and knew would occur early in his life and late in the book. The whole 'time told backward' narration device did NOT get any easier to keep up with, as I had hoped it would early on in the book. Dialogue was a pain especially. The only things that saved this book from a 'Hate' was that it was short, so the torture didn't last too long (although it still managed to drag) and I did enjoy the theme of hurting and healing.Still, I would not recommend this book.3/10 - Dislike

[johngrant1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

An entity -- a soul, perhaps? -- is born into the body of naturalized US citizen Tod Friendly at the moment the latter dies of old age, and watches Tod's life lived in reverse, from this moment of death all the way back to the moment, decades earlier, when as a tiny bawling baby he is stuffed back into his screaming mother. Along the way, we discover that Tod, under a different name, is a monster, a WWII war criminal living in the US under an assumed name: he has been one of the vile "physicians" working in Auschwitz under Mengele and, before that, with the Holocaust's major architect Christian Wirth. To the entity, however, these men and "Tod" himself aren't monsters at all but great benefactors, for do they not take shattered, mutilated men, women and children and, marvelously, render them whole?

The telling of a tale in reverse chronology is an interesting literary conceit -- interesting in theory, anyway. In practice, it's a bit annoying and dull, which is why (so far as I know) only one other novel has been written this way: Counter-Clock World (1967) by Philip K. Dick; there may be good reason why this is one of the few Dick novels not to have been reissued over the past decade or so. (After the publication of Time's Arrow, Amis acknowledged borrowing the conceit from Dick; but he makes no mention of this in the book's Acknowledgments pages.) In the case of Time's Arrow, the thrill of seeing everyday actions being reinterpreted because done backwards wears off pretty fast, and once that happens there's not a whole lot left to be entranced by except watching how well or badly the author handles his self-imposed task. To Amis's credit, I noticed just one instance where his control of the chronology slipped (unless I'm mistaking the reference), where the narrating entity referred to something as being in the past when in fact it lay in the entity's future: p42, where the narrator's talking about a Japanese student in 1960s or 1970s America, and says, "He's lucky he wasn't here a few years ago, when we really hated the Japanese."

I read the book around this time of its first publication and remember thinking that, just as the telling of the tale backwards was a somewhat meaningless stunt, so in fact was my reading it: I got to the end of it (it's quite a short book) but felt less as if I'd read a novel or been told a story, more as if I'd got to the far end of the tightrope without falling off, and so what? I had the same feeling this time round except that the book annoyed me quite a lot more -- not just through the affectation of the literary trick but also because applying it to a piece of human history so horrific as the Auschwitz seems to me to cheapen that misery and suffering, as if to say that human torment is just something to be witty about.

Oh, yes, and it wasn't lost on me that "Tod" is the German for "death". Friendly Death. I'm not 100% sure what Amis meant to convey by that.

[jmoncton_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This book starts out with the main character dying. The big twist is that he then lives his life backwards. Since it is the same life, he doesn't get to make any decisions, but instead observe his own life. What an interesting story! How would we judge our own lives if we lived them in reverse?

[evanroskos_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The kind of book that bothers some people because the author's efforts are so constant and obvious, but wonderful. I still marvel at Amis's ability to write an entire novel backwards. But I also appreciate his ability to keep the book manageable. It's a book you need to learn to read and once you "get" the language, you don't want to stop. Brilliant.

***
Added: I recently re-read this book and it didn't hook itself into my brain like the last times. I'm not sure if I've gotten past the ideas and can't really appreciate it for anything else (the style and ideas are fantastic, but once those have been absorbed, there's not much else).

[patthebunny5000 · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

This may sound ridiculous, but the book narrator is downright unrealistic. The fact that the narrator never realizes what is happening (i.e. time is going backwards) made it impossible for me to enjoy this book. It was short so I finished it but I could not stand the narrator. I understand Amis was using the narrator as a vehicle to tell the story backwards, but the narrator (from the beginning) has an established perspective of the world. He knows what doctors are, he knows general concepts like conversation etc.. The only way for the narrator to know these things (from the beginning) is if he were to have already lived life forwards. So why does he never pick up on life flowing backwards? Additionally the author spent time "learning" backwards English, but understood backwards German immediately... really?Also the writing style is pretentious.

[beautyisntperfect_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is an interesting and engaging book. As you learn within the first few pages, time runs backward in this novel. I found the reversal of time really drew me into the story. Reading this book is similar to solving a puzzle, you have to remember clues to make connections because you get the effects of something before it actually happens, which I thought was one of the best parts about reading it.

[jenners26 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I confess that I read this book quite a while ago (probably 10+ years ago), so the details are a little hazy. But the idea of the book stayed with me after all this time--so it must have made an impression on me (and books that make an impression or worth reading!). I remembered that I liked the book because the author chose to tell a life story backwards--starting at the end and moving toward birth. I remember being intrigued by this idea so I bought it. When preparing to write this little description, I went to Amazon.com to refresh my memory on the details and then it started coming back to me bit by bit. The person whose story the author choose to tell is a Nazi. Obviously, this is not just any old character and life, but one charged with significance and loaded with provocation. Because I don't think I could accurately write the description of how the book works, I'm borrowing the quick description from the Amazon.com review: "He puts two separate consciousnesses into the person of one man, ex-Nazi doctor Tod T. Friendly. One identity wakes at the moment of Friendly's death and runs backwards in time, like a movie played in reverse, (e.g., factory smokestacks scrub the air clean,) unaware of the terrible past he approaches. The "normal" consciousness runs in time's regular direction, fleeing his ignominious history." I remember being filled with dread and anticipation of how the one identity was going to confront the truth of his past. It is a thought-provoking read and, again, does an interesting job of playing with time.

[eswnr · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

The only work of fiction by which I've ever been physically disoriented by reading. I was so enveloped in the method that I'd get up to get a glass of water, and I'd have to stop and think to make sure I was taking the steps in the right order. Of course, this would just be gimmickry by someone not as brilliant as Amis - here the effect is the perfect device by which to tell the story.

[nativeroses_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Startling work about the life of a Nazi doctor from a Holocaust death camp as seen by an independent intelligence within him that experiences the doctor's life and surroundings moving backwards through time. Brilliant examination of what may have been the doctor's thoughts and feelings at various points in his life as deciphered by the backwards moving intelligence within him. Some of the scenes that will stay with me include the 'uniting' of the Jewish families (as seen by the intelligence within the doctor) in which Jewish husbands, wives, and children transitioned from anguished despair at their separation to clinging to one another. Extremely highly recommended.

[drjane_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I am not a fan of science fiction but I really enjoyed this book!

[m8a8harding · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

ultimately - bad taste

[thetwods · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

***SPOILERS***Is it possible to write about one of the worst atrocities perpetuated on humanity - focusing on the worst aspects of that atrocity - from the point of view of a participant? One would expect this to become a morose, gruesome endeavour, doomed to morphing into a litany of abuses.But what if you told the story backwards? Start at the end of an old man's life, work backwards to the atrocities and to even earlier times.This is the premise Martin Amis brilliantly pulls off here, with full command of the language and a technical performance worthy of envy. Conversations are related backwards. Aging happens backwards. The simple act of hailing a taxi becomes a serio-comic execise in parody - the taxi is waiting for you when you come out of the restaurant, it knows where to take you, just before you get out you tell it where you have just come from, when you get out you are so appreciative of the service you stand there waving at all of the taxis for a while. Touches like this elevate what could have been a stylistic exercise in wankery to a level of art rarely reached in fiction.

[mjiko_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

This is the first book I've read by Martin Amis, and I found it to be self-consciously clever and frankly pretentious. It's impressive that Amis could write a story backwards, but that doesn't make it a good book. On the whole I found this generally irritating.

[thethinslice · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

As the impact of the holocaust recedes out of living memory forever, Amis renders the event anew. The narrator is an intelligent passenger inside the head of a man as his life unfolds in reverse. The narrator is intelligent, though his conclusions are based upon a world where letters first spring from fire and then are read, and where life is mended with the knife’s edge. As a result, the narrator’s perspective on events are innocent and pure like a child’s. The effect is [hopefully] to re-awaken the world so they do not forget.With highly praised films such as Life Is Beautiful portraying the holocaust as a Disney World, works like this one by Amis are increasingly more important.Aside from the obvious subject which isn’t overtly revealed until the last quarter of the book, this little post-modern narrative experiment also reveals much more about the human condition where chess boards are painstakingly organized from chaos, the participant celebrate their work with a handshake, and the world moves towards a green promised land. A land that is known to exist, and it is only a matter of time before it is reached.