Martin Amis - The Pregnant Widow

The New York Times“Remarkably tedious new novel...” If these musings were entertaining or keenly observed, that would be one thing, but Mr. Amis, one of the great stylists of the English novel, has oddly traded his mastery of language in these pages for a mannered, self-indulgent style...

Economist“Amis at his absolute and unique best...” Notwithstanding the immoderate animus directed towards him at the time of the substandard “Yellow Dog”, Mr Amis has always been a stimulating writer, and someone who gives a distinctive colouring to certain times in our lives...

Financial Times“Hilarious, often wonderfully perceptive...” Amis’s finest novel for a long time. It is close to a masterpiece, only undermined for me by frequent over-striving, which produces some false images and enervating repetitions; unlike his hero Saul Bellow, Amis is unfamiliar with restraint...

The Times“After an effervescent start, things go flat...” A potentially stunning novel ends up containing the familiar ratio of what is good and bad in Amis’s writing, the usual mix of Amis gems and Amis junk...

The Telegraph“A constant supply of thoughtful hilarity...” Moving and humane, The Pregnant Widow also captivates by the accustomed wit and elegance of its style. Amis just writes so well and so freshly... he is consistently bold, visual and accurate...

The Independent“Endless narcissistic navel-gazing...” Amis seems to be aiming for a mixture of out-and-out satire and comedy of manners, but his affection for his vapid ensemble means that most of the humour fails to hit home...

The Scotsman“In the business of systematic overstatement...” The Pregnant Widow is never remotely convincing as a novel in which "the reverberation, the echo of humanity" can be heard. It comes across more as a 470-page interview with Martin Amis. Oddly endearing to read. But as fiction, it's a farce...

Guardian“A flashy Decameron of the sexual revolution...” Reminds you of those medieval epics in which the hero, Troilus, or ­whoever, observes from a heavenly vantage, free from earthly care, his teenage self ­tortured and dying for love, and permits himself more than a wry smile...

The New Yorker 

Publishers Weekly