I have to say: I'm decidedly underwhelmed. The last sixty pages of McEwan's book have been a disaster. This may be the singularly worst book that I actually complete. Do feel like throwing the towel in though since at this age one has to take time flitted away seriously.
I'm amazed that someone who writes this awfully can actually get published. I think at one stage I actually stopped engaging with it seriously and just skimmed through the pages noting the exasperating bits and the other bits which I marked with a large 'F' for fake.
Some choice examples:
So, the scene. The Jehovah's Witness kid gets the transfusion, thanks to the judge's reasonable judgement (note: reason 1, religion 0). Then a few weeks later, this kid who had previously been a kind of fanatic, as we are led to believe-though he likes poetry, the violin..ah, the old civilizing forces at work here. How bloody comforting!-writes a letter to Fiona ("call me Fiona").
He writes,
"I need to hear your calm voice and have your clear mind discuss with me."
WtF!! It's not just that no 17 year-old actually speaks like that; it's that the whole falseness of the words and the tone shows this book and the author up.
It gets worse:
'My Lady, will you please write to me, just a few words to say that you've read this letter and don't hate me for writing it.'
Cue vomit.
'Don't hate me..'..that's so, like, 19th century!
I should have realized a lot earlier that this book was seriously flawed when he breezed through Fiona's 'decision' not to have children in three measly lines. That's about all the amount of empathy, or degree of understanding, I suppose, that McEwan could muster up.
Next exhibit, M'Lady..
The kid follows Fiona to romantic old Newcastle. He informs her, 'I had this huge row with my dad...I told him everything I thought about his stupid religion...'
There is more fakeness: 'These were his [God's] instructions I was obeying but it was mostly about the delicious adventure I was on,..'
Delicious!? Seriously??
'Yeah, well, anorexia is a bit like religion.'
'She couldn't hep herself, she laughed at the po-faced self-ironic afterthought...'
She is still a 59 year-old woman, right?
'He added by way of explanation, the school was enormous.'
It's at this stage that you wonder if a teenager has written this book, a po-faced teenager.
He then goes on to tell her that his meeting her in the hospital was like a grown-up coming into a room full of kids (i.e. people who believe in religion) who are 'making each other miserable and sad'. It was like the grown-up (Fiona/McEwan) saying, "Come on, stop all the nonsense, it's teatime!"
I kid thee not, it's that bad. Page 164.
More drivel...
'We replace one tooth fairy with another.'
And the response to that?
'Perhaps everyone needs tooth fairies.'
Yes, to believe that a grown-up man actually wrote this tosh does require a leap of faith.
Some reviews:
'One of the best and most perfect novels I've ever read.'
Michael Frayn (a friend, no doubt)
'It is one of the most extraordinary, powerful, moving reading experiences of my life. It is an utterly remarkable novel, delicately balanced, perfectly crafted, beautifully written.'
--Alberto Manguel.
I give up, I seriously do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~~
I'm amazed that someone who writes this awfully can actually get published. I think at one stage I actually stopped engaging with it seriously and just skimmed through the pages noting the exasperating bits and the other bits which I marked with a large 'F' for fake.
Some choice examples:
So, the scene. The Jehovah's Witness kid gets the transfusion, thanks to the judge's reasonable judgement (note: reason 1, religion 0). Then a few weeks later, this kid who had previously been a kind of fanatic, as we are led to believe-though he likes poetry, the violin..ah, the old civilizing forces at work here. How bloody comforting!-writes a letter to Fiona ("call me Fiona").
He writes,
"I need to hear your calm voice and have your clear mind discuss with me."
WtF!! It's not just that no 17 year-old actually speaks like that; it's that the whole falseness of the words and the tone shows this book and the author up.
It gets worse:
'My Lady, will you please write to me, just a few words to say that you've read this letter and don't hate me for writing it.'
Cue vomit.
'Don't hate me..'..that's so, like, 19th century!
I should have realized a lot earlier that this book was seriously flawed when he breezed through Fiona's 'decision' not to have children in three measly lines. That's about all the amount of empathy, or degree of understanding, I suppose, that McEwan could muster up.
Next exhibit, M'Lady..
The kid follows Fiona to romantic old Newcastle. He informs her, 'I had this huge row with my dad...I told him everything I thought about his stupid religion...'
There is more fakeness: 'These were his [God's] instructions I was obeying but it was mostly about the delicious adventure I was on,..'
Delicious!? Seriously??
'Yeah, well, anorexia is a bit like religion.'
'She couldn't hep herself, she laughed at the po-faced self-ironic afterthought...'
She is still a 59 year-old woman, right?
'He added by way of explanation, the school was enormous.'
It's at this stage that you wonder if a teenager has written this book, a po-faced teenager.
He then goes on to tell her that his meeting her in the hospital was like a grown-up coming into a room full of kids (i.e. people who believe in religion) who are 'making each other miserable and sad'. It was like the grown-up (Fiona/McEwan) saying, "Come on, stop all the nonsense, it's teatime!"
I kid thee not, it's that bad. Page 164.
More drivel...
'We replace one tooth fairy with another.'
And the response to that?
'Perhaps everyone needs tooth fairies.'
Yes, to believe that a grown-up man actually wrote this tosh does require a leap of faith.
Some reviews:
'One of the best and most perfect novels I've ever read.'
Michael Frayn (a friend, no doubt)
'It is one of the most extraordinary, powerful, moving reading experiences of my life. It is an utterly remarkable novel, delicately balanced, perfectly crafted, beautifully written.'
--Alberto Manguel.
I give up, I seriously do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~~
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