As I was lying on the lawn of Washington, D.C.’s Folger Park, my head propped on a hiking boot at the end of a 17-hour ruck across what seemed like every inch of our fair capital city, my friend and fellow sufferer Ed looked over and asked, “Did you know Martin Amis died?”
Ed, a former Marine captain and a voracious, discerning reader, had come to know Amis’s work like I suppose many of our generational cohort (very late Gen. X) did: by reading Christopher Hitchens, a congenital name-dropper.
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