Reading Ian McEwan’s SATURDAY on a (Labor Day) Monday

Self just realized: This is her first Ian McEwan novel.

Where was she all these years? She was falling in love with Deborah Digges who, as far as self knows, had only one or two books (of prose, that is), and who taught at Tufts and who passed away earlier this year, much too soon, and Rosario Castellanos and Nina Berberova.

But, better late than never. She has arrived at Ian McEwan. And the first novel of his that she happens to read is Saturday. And it’s tangentially about 9/11. And it begins so well, with that gripping scene of the doctor standing at his window and seeing a plane on fire.

But then it begins to meander, and in a novel this short there really shouldn’t be any meandering, and the doctor goes on and on and on about how much he loves his wife (Okay, self gets it, the man is blessed. Which can only mean one thing: the novel will end with the doctor in a singular state of un-blessedness. Which self thinks is a rather Read the rest of this entry »

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