Saturday

I finished Saturday this evening. There's so much that's good about this book, but I can't help feeling -- churlishly, perhaps -- that it doesn't quite make the final leap to perfection. Why? Because there are some things about the last sections that -- even though they depict a situation I haven't been in (not exactly, anyway) -- don't quite ring true to me: a sudden transformation through poetry; a coincidence of role and location; the performance of an operation after a traumatic event. Here, it felt to me as if the internal logic of the story had dragged it away from the novel's rootedness in a tangible, beautifully depicted world of experience, thought and sensation. After the deep conviction and believability of what came before, this last part felt a little...not strained, but a little too neat, perhaps: the shape of the story is satisfied, but not -- for me, at least -- the wider truth of the tone and conviction of the piece. I also feel that some of the socio-political narratives feel a bit clunky...not fully integrated in the characters' voices.

I feel rotten writing this: there's some really beautiful, true and moving writing in this book. I'd still recommend it as a treasure house of spare, precise prose, of great desription (of moods, things, emotional and physical states), and of profound emotional truths. Maybe I'm suffering from a failure of imagination: read it and see what you think.

This is the first Ian McEwan book I've read. I've got his whole back catalogue to work through, and I'm looking forward to it.