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What's worse, despite first hand experience of their fathers' suffering, far too many children of writers have willingly submitted to this "abominable torture" (Emile Zola). Apparently, the disorder is hereditary. But fortunately, quite a few of these second generation writers actually have talent. Novelist and journalist Auberon Waugh, son of Evelyn, cut an imposing figure in British literary circles until his untimely death last year. Mark Vonnegut's sadly out of print memoir, The Eden Express, is one of the best personal accounts of schizophrenia ever written. James Jones's daughter Kaylie is also a gifted novelist. And John Cheever and Paul Theroux have fathered two successful writers each (Benjamin and Susan Cheever, and Alexander and Marcel Theroux respectively). But though talented, for each of these writers the father nonetheless cast the longer shadow. Just as sequels tend to be but diminished versions of the original, most second generation authors pale in comparison to their fathers. Why bother with the mediocrity of The Two Jakes when you could simply re-watch the perfection of Chinatown? Every once in a while, though, a first class author sires a true heir, a son who takes up where the father left off, who inspires controversy over who is better, whose reputation stands alone. It doesn't happen often, but every once in a while a Godfather II comes along. Since producing an heir worthy of the throne is purportedly the deepest goal of fatherhood (Freud's blood-soaked theories notwithstanding) it seems fitting to honor father's day with a short (okay, very short) list of famous writers whose children have come closest to matching their achievements. One recent example of the phenomenon is Andre Dubus and his son Andre Dubus III. Most readers are familiar with Andre junior from his powerful 1999 novel House of Sand and Fog, which was both a finalist for the National Book Award and a national bestseller. This gripping, lyrical novel about the clash of culture and desire in the California hills elicits a tremendous response from readers, best summed up by James Lee Burke who called House of Sand and Fog "one of the best American novels I've ever read." For me, that makes Andre junior and his father Andre senior a nice set, for Dubus senior is one of the best American short story writers I've ever read, a writer whose intelligence, compassion, and elegant prose have inspired comparison to such masters as Anton Chekhov, Raymond Carver, and Flannery O'Connor (whose devout Catholicism he shared). Dubus senior's stories even coaxed a few flowery lines from Mr. John Updike: "...life's gallant, battered ongoingness, with its complicated fuelling by sex, religion, and liquor, constitutes his sturdy central subject, which is rendered with a luminous delicacy..." Readers are fortunate to have Dubus's stories. But even more than the loudly-suffering writers mentioned above, they did not come easily. In the late eighties Andre Dubus was involved in a tragic car accident which left him permanently confined to a wheelchair. For several years the rigors of physical recovery as well as a severe case of depression prevented him from writing anything at all. When he did resume his work, it required enormous effort. However, the result was the superb, Dancing After Hours, the greatest collection of his distinguished career. Sadly, Andre Dubus senior died just before his son began to realize his own success. Of course Dubus senior would have been proud. But one wonders, given his own struggles as a writer, whether he wouldn't have had at least a few reservations at seeing his son commit to a writer's life. Dubus junior himself made his intentions clear: "That's the last thing I wanted to be. No friggin' way." And yet, finally, he couldn't resist. Why? Who knows. Maybe Euripides was right. Martin Amis, famous son of the first famous Amis (Sir Kingsley), offers even fewer clues as to why he wanted to follow his father: "My father never encouraged me to write, never invited me to go for that longshot; he praised me less often than he publicly dispraised me." And yet, like Dubus, the younger Amis couldn't pass up the gauntlet thrown by the father, in his case one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. In 1954 Kingsley Amis published his first novel, Lucky Jim, which made him a leading figure in the pack of brilliant, cynical postwar intellectuals soon dubbed the Angry Young Men. Lucky Jim, the father of all academic satires, has since been recognized as one of the greatest comic novels of the century, not to mention one of the greatest debut novels of all time. It was also the first in a string of brilliant works that soon made Kingsley Amis one of Britain's most famous (or infamous, depending on your tastes) novelists. Kingsley Amis was the original grouchy Brit wit, the man who said, "If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing." But as a world-class writer he remained vital for several decades. Though inexplicably out of print in this country, his 1986 novel, The Old Devils, is as fine – and funny – as any novel he wrote, the novel Martin believes his father will be remembered for: "...it stands comparison with any English novel of the century...except of course Ulysses." In 1973 son Martin published his own first novel. Though there was no longer a school of "angry young men" to define Amis, The Rachel Papers, a wickedly satirical portrait of a depraved teenage boy, was hardly the work of a gentle soul. Nonetheless, it was peach sherbet in comparison with the dark, complex novels that followed, including Money, London Fields, and Night Train. But while these novels rapidly established the young Amis's reputation as "the most talented British writer of his generation" – and, by the way, its best paid: The Information received the largest literary advance in British history – Amis the senior remained less than encouraging of his now famous son, stating in interviews that his novels were "unreadable" and his ideas "dangerous, howling nonsense." Apparently this didn't bother Martin much. A good portion of his brilliant 2000 memoir Experience – that is, the parts that aren't describing his odd obsession with his teeth – is an affectionate, astute, touching portrait of his relationship with his famous father. If he had minded his father's disapproval, all had clearly been forgiven. Maybe this was because he had become a father himself: ''At the birth of your child, you forgive your parents everything, without a second thought, like a velvet revolution.'' Or maybe it was because he had realized why his father offered so few kind words regarding his chosen profession: "...there will be no encouragement for my children. No encouragement. None." Now come on, Martin. I can't be the only one who finds this about as fair as Sammy Hagar subjecting his children to a zero tolerance drug policy. Is being a writer really such a terrible weight to bear? George Orwell notwithstanding, don't many writers actually enjoy their profession? Take Red Smith (yes, I know he's a sports writer). He states, with refreshing optimism, that writing is easy, "all you have to do is sit at a typewriter and open a vein." —Carlisle 
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