McEwan

Yesterday I finished Ian McEwan’s Saturday, which I really enjoyed. His prose is beautiful and polished. In reading the criticism (afterwards), I understand how some take issue with his characters, viewpoint and writing style, but I ended firmly back in his camp.

I found especially interesting the plane crash the main character witnesses at the beginning that threads through the book. He wonders why it’s not immediately on the news, why reports are terse. Then there’s who’s on board. For me it was an accurate inner drama of thought-swings: dreading the worst has happened, feeling a bit buoyed that it’s not so bad, doubting news, then how you almost want your fears confirmed. That would justify your having them. A proof of guilt would justify your opinion and preserve your righteousness. A lot of the book is about that: a well-off surgeon with a day to examine himself. It’s a world itself looking at itself ready to unravel after 9-11. There are a number of allusions to The Heart of Darkness, not the least of which is the bruise left on the surgeon’s chest after a run-in with some thugs.

There were a few places were Saturday is overwritten. (One sentence especially sticks out – read the book and ask me later.) I also think the lingering over soup ingredients and furniture reflects the lifestyle and camp as much in a negative way as a laudatory. And, yes, it is in one spot the plot is especially contrived, but it can’t be any more weird/coincidental than real life. I’m letting him off the hook this time. I’ve read a number of McEwan’s books and swore him off after Amsterdam, which I found contrived enough to be ridiculous. But my mother left Saturday at my house after she visited so I figured why not. Chances are you’ll hate it.

I was surprised to find out this morning when talking to a colleague that Amsterdam(1998) won the Booker prize. Oh geez that must have been a bad year. Of the Booker prize books I’ve read, I also disliked Possession (1990). But I loved Disgrace (1999) and Oscar and Lucinda (1988). If you read Michael Ondaatje, read The Collected Works of Billy the Kid before The English Patient (1992). And my colleague recommends Banville.

Here are the Bookers of the past 30 years. I bolded the ones I've read.

2005 - John Banville, The Sea
2004 - Alan Hollinghurst, The Line of Beauty
2003 - DBC Pierre, Vernon God Little
2002 - Yann Martel, Life of Pi
2001 - Peter Carey, True History of the Kelly Gang
2000 - Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
1999 - J M Coetzee, Disgrace
1998 - Ian McEwan, Amsterdam
1997 - Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
1996 - Graham Swift, Last Orders
1995 - Pat Barker, The Ghost Road
1994 - James Kelman, How Late It Was, How Late
1993 - Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
1992 - Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
1992 - Barry Unsworth, Sacred Hunger
1991 - Ben Okri, The Famished Road
1990 - A S Byatt, Possession
1989 - Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day
1988 - Peter Carey, Oscar and Lucinda
1987 - Penelope Lively, Moon Tiger
1986 - Kingsley Amis, The Old Devils
1985 - Keri Hulme, The Bone People
1984 - Anita Brookner, Hotel du Lac
1983 - J M Coetzee, Life & Times of Michael K
1982 - Thomas Keneally, Schindler's Ark
1981 - Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children
1980 - William Golding, Rites of Passage
1979 - Penelope Fitzgerald, Offshore
1978 - Iris Murdoch, The Sea, the Sea1977 - Paul Scott, Staying On
1976 - David Storey, Saville
1975 - Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Heat and Dust