Book of Last Fortnight

Yep, I'm running late again. That's what work does to you.

I read Atonement two years ago, and I'm slightly ashamed to admit it made me cry. Not just sniffles, mind, proper lying-on-my-bed-howling in a way I hadn't since reading Black Beauty for the first time at the age of eight. In my defence, I was tired, but it does take one heck of a book to do that to me. This from someone who got through the literary bloodbath that is Russian Literature 1A without shedding a tear and who, at the age of three, on seeing a pigeon mown down by a lorry declared it to be "quite interesting, actually".

What I'm trying to say, in a roundabout way (no, not a Magic Roundabout, though my hair does look a bit like Dougal at the moment) is that I think Ian McEwen is one of the best English language authors around at the moment. Sure, it's not high literature, but his work is entertaining and engaging and honestly, speaking as one who has to sift through heaps of dry historical documents on a regular basis, that's often what I want from fiction.

Here comes the bit where I tell you what I've actually been reading. Don't worry, I won't turn round at the end and tell you the nice bits were all made up and actually they all died. (Bitter much?)

The book was, as you've probably guessed, by Ian McEwen, and it was On Chesil Beach. The book is set on the wedding night of a young couple in the south of England at some point in the after-war period. I have a great fondness for books set in England in the first half of the twentieth century. This was the time of Elgar and of Vaughan Williams, the time of DH Lawrence and Vera Britten, of Rupert Brooke swimming in the mill pond at Grantchester. The period lends itself well to escapist imaginings: far enough away in time to be idealised, but close enough to keep a sense of familiarity.

We see the newlyweds' story through the prism of this one place and one time, the evening spent by Chesil Beach. The book is short, but tells us all we need to know to understand. The two protagonists find themselves at loggerheads, but the reader, sympathising with both, does not find themself taking sides: McEwen's delicately balanced treatmentof the dispute does not attribute blame. What happens happens because of a slightly mistimed movement, an unwise choice of words: no-one is at fault. The outcome is far from ideal, but it is hard to see how it could have been otherwise.

Back to the cupboard now. I have much to do.