This time I’m tackling two books at a time, and I can do
that because a) I have already talked about McEwan more than enough, and b) put
together, the two books barely get over 300 pages. As usual, I got the first of
the two from the local farm, and the second was from a wonderful Amnesty
International book-sale in Blackheath.
In short: reading the two books quite simply confirmed what
I already knew/felt/thought about McEwan. His early stuff (in this case In Between the Sheets) remains dark, incestuous,
pornographic and overall – when he doesn’t completely lose the plot (in all
senses) – those short stories are frantically interesting and well-written. Most
of the books he published recently (in this case On Chesil Beach) read like the author’s celebration of his own
talent as a writer: sure, McEwan’s prose remains great, but his plots just bore
me these days (and I do realize that the big surprise in the end is meant to
make the reader reconsider everything he initially thought about the couple’s
troubled wedding night – but is it really that much of a surprise?!?).
So yeah, only a couple more books and then I’ll stop reading
McEwan. Well, only a couple more books and I’ll have read everything he
actually wrote.
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