monday, monday

it's dark now, and there's rain pattering on the skylight. i'm feeling a bit blue.

i'm nearing the end of Ian McEwan's Saturday. it's a stealthy book. i don't know what happens at the end, but i have a sense of dread about the dodgy/violent character whose car the main protagonist scraped earlier in the day. what's stealthy is the way that the prose insinuates the main character's - Henry Perowne's - voice and epiphanies into your head, drifting from mood to mood and detail detail to detail. also intriguing is the way that Henry's voice - cool, cerebral, analytical, objective - co-exists with those everyday epiphanies, and with the wealth of love in the book: in the section i've just read, Henry visited his increasingly senile mother in her old people's home, and then dropped in on his son's band's jam session; in both contexts, you could sense the intimacy with, and love for, these people - it percolates through the prose, insidiously, and osmoses into you. touching, clever, and intriguing.