Saturday
It took me a long time to read Saturday.* I bought it before we went on vacation in August (with the gift card for our favorite independent bookstore that M bought me for my birthday--isn't that the sweetest thing ever?) (I also bought Veronica--I wonder if it will take me as long to read that). I think I read maybe 15 pages on vacation, then put it down and read other things, picked it up, put it down, even forgot what it was called--at some point I told a friend I was reading September, only I knew that couldn't be right, because I knew the big anti-war demonstration that forms the novel's backdrop had been in February--and then I finally got into it last week and plowed through to the end in just a couple of nights (it wasn't as unpleasurable as "plowed" might suggest, but I can't quite say I couldn't put it down, just that by that point I really did want to finish it, in a positive kind of way).
It's not that I didn't like it. In fact, I did some of that initial reading as I was reading some badly written books, and from the very first page I felt such a sense of relief to be reading good prose again. Ian McEwan is, simply, one of the most effective stylists writing today. And in Saturday, he combines exquisite sentences with erudition beyond belief, details of neuropsychology--yes, neuropsychology--that there cannot be another novelist on the planet who grasps, not to mention literature, geopolitics, geography, squash...
The novel is essentially a Ulysses of contemporary London, following wealthy neurosurgeon Henry Perowne through the Saturday just before the Iraq war started when millions of people protested in London. Perowne doesn't go to the rally--he's not sure what he thinks about the war, but is leaning in favor. Instead he plays squash (for 16 pages), buys fish, visits his senile mother, makes dinner, has three encounters with a criminal with Huntington's disease, and thinks about his life, as one does while living it. The other reference point, of course, is Nicholson Baker and The Mezzanine, though I'm not sure that one was on McEwan's mind (Joyce is pretty obvious, in the structure, in the sexual riffs, and in the last line of the novel which a bit too obviously alludes to the last line of "The Dead," though any allusion to the last line of "The Dead" makes me happy, as it's one of my favorite last lines ever.)
Anyway, it's an admirable book, a respect-worthy book, even, often, an engaging book, and it's certainly a Very Good Book, and in the end I quite liked it. But it was not a book I loved--like I loved Atonement, which I truly could not put down. I think I must read some more McEwan so I can formulate a broader position.
* Powell's is down, hence the Amazon link, and I have no real rationale for why I use Powell's--besides my general instinct to stick it to the dominant capitalist powers-that-be--I just do, except sometimes I don't, only I won't be mentioning it anymore.
It's not that I didn't like it. In fact, I did some of that initial reading as I was reading some badly written books, and from the very first page I felt such a sense of relief to be reading good prose again. Ian McEwan is, simply, one of the most effective stylists writing today. And in Saturday, he combines exquisite sentences with erudition beyond belief, details of neuropsychology--yes, neuropsychology--that there cannot be another novelist on the planet who grasps, not to mention literature, geopolitics, geography, squash...
The novel is essentially a Ulysses of contemporary London, following wealthy neurosurgeon Henry Perowne through the Saturday just before the Iraq war started when millions of people protested in London. Perowne doesn't go to the rally--he's not sure what he thinks about the war, but is leaning in favor. Instead he plays squash (for 16 pages), buys fish, visits his senile mother, makes dinner, has three encounters with a criminal with Huntington's disease, and thinks about his life, as one does while living it. The other reference point, of course, is Nicholson Baker and The Mezzanine, though I'm not sure that one was on McEwan's mind (Joyce is pretty obvious, in the structure, in the sexual riffs, and in the last line of the novel which a bit too obviously alludes to the last line of "The Dead," though any allusion to the last line of "The Dead" makes me happy, as it's one of my favorite last lines ever.)
Anyway, it's an admirable book, a respect-worthy book, even, often, an engaging book, and it's certainly a Very Good Book, and in the end I quite liked it. But it was not a book I loved--like I loved Atonement, which I truly could not put down. I think I must read some more McEwan so I can formulate a broader position.
* Powell's is down, hence the Amazon link, and I have no real rationale for why I use Powell's--besides my general instinct to stick it to the dominant capitalist powers-that-be--I just do, except sometimes I don't, only I won't be mentioning it anymore.
posted by Becca at
8:33 PM
3 Comments:
I had a very similar time with Saturday--putting it down, picking it up several times and then finally pushing to the end, liking it but not as much as Atonement. I remember feeling distracted (as, by the way, I also felt with Ulysses) by a kind of trying-too-hard-to-do-something-great authorial presence, even while I appreciated the effort.
By
Margi, at 7:45 AM
I so agree - but, it was my first McEwan book. I read it on a recommendation from one of my favorite authors, and yes, it was good, but not in a way I could rave about to someone else. More like, you should read it, it's well done, but you might have to make yourself...
I will need to read Atonement, it seems.
By
Anonymous, at 9:53 AM
I completely agree. Found Atonement much more gripping (not in a suspense way, just in a can't-put-it-down way), but was aware while reading that this was a well-written and well-plotted book.
By
Anonymous, at 10:06 PM
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