Burn Me At The Stake!

Now, this probably won’t win me many friends, but I have to speak out – finally – on the subject of Ian McEwan. I was an early fan of his from years ago. The Cement Garden, The Comfort of Strangers, The Child In Time and then – much later, but possibly his best achievement – Enduring Love, were all excellent. I first began to get an uneasy sensation of watching the Emperor walk naked with Amsterdam, but this was soon assuaged by the appearance of Atonement (a far more worthy winner of The Booker in my opinion, but of course, the feminists would never have allowed it). Then came Saturday which holds the dubious honour – along with such books as Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel – of being amongst those I couldn’t finish. It won so many awards that I thought I must be missing the point; that I was alone in my incomprehension. But no, I stand by my view that it is one of the most pointless and irritating novels I have ever (half) read. Life is too short to persevere with this kind of thing.

And now, I’ve just finished On Chesil Beach which, although not his latest novel, signals to me that McEwan has well and truly lost the plot. It is reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway (but then, so was Saturday) but far from being the innovative ‘stream of consciousness’ kind of work that Woolf achieved, it is (in my opinion) writing for writing’s sake. I waded through the agony upon pointless agony-of-the-moment for the first one hundred & sixty one pages – without ever caring whether the protagonists eventually achieved a coital bonding or not – and was then rushed through a (totally unconvincing) five-page expositive unravelling of someone’s wasted life. I had a distinct feeling that McEwan had simply become bored with his own book. It reminded me of my past efforts at decorating. I would start with great enthusiasm, taking enormous care with the preparation and first stages, only to end in a flurry of slap-dash, ‘that will do’ attention to detail. Yes, On Chesil Beach was just like that, I think.

The plaudits that it received when it was first published only go to support my view that the industry is too self-interested – or possibly too polite - to notice when the Emperor has dared to step out without his clothes. Am I bitter and twisted? Of course not!