The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan

Ostensibly, The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan is a book for children. It’s not really a novel, because the author himself conceived these pieces as separate stories to be told to his own children. Assembled in this way, however, in form they resemble many contemporary writers’ novels that portray apparently disparate and unrelated scenes featuring a main character who acts as a thread. It’s not a linear plot that is desired, but recognition that the character responds and develops as a result of what life presents and is changed by that experience. 

In his introduction to these “Peter stories”, Ian McEwan describes how he tried to forget about “our mighty tradition of children’s literature and to write a book for adults about a child in the language of the children could understand”. In so doing, and very succinctly, the author has achieved his aim and has thus created a world which is multi-layered in that there are events themselves and then there are the emotional worlds related to them.

Peter Fortune is eleven or thereabouts. Precision doesn’t matter. He has a younger sister called Kate who always seems to be able to get her own way, either by guile or by politics. Parents Thomas and Viola both work, it seems, but we never get to know them. From Peter`s point of view it is as parents that they exist and thus all possible questions about them are both answered and irrelevant.

What Peter experiences via imagination is at the core of this work, as so the review will not reveal any detail. Suffice it to say there is a cat, some toys, a burglar, a bully and even an adult in the mix. Peter address is these objects of interest directly and without analysis. He is rarely in control of his thoughts and regularly surprises himself. He addresses no great questions directly, but raises many for his co-travellers.

Sweet Tooth by Ian McEwan

Sweet Tooth by Ian McEwan is a subtle, moving book about espionage. There is a touch of oxymoron about that, somewhere. No-one is killed. There are no guns. No-one is shot, poisoned, dismembered or tortured, at least not physically, within these pages. There’s plenty of anguish, however, but this is usually personal and more often than not self-inflicted. Sweet Tooth demonstrates that drama, excitement and suspense can be generated by a plot that puts people and their relationships at the fore. After all, intelligence is born of people’s thoughts, and is rarely generated by bullets or car chases.

Sirena Frome (rhymes with plume) has been brought up with her sister by a Church of England Bishop as father, married to a rather frumpish wife. The background is dismissed quickly, but returns occasionally. Ian McEwan via Sirena tells us that it’s not important. What is significant is Sirena’s love of reading and associated ability to absorb texts at speed and, alongside that, her seemingly innate facility for mathematics. She just can’t see the problems that others refuse. She ought to have studied English, but pragmatism choses the mathematics option and Cambridge embraces her, though not happily. She is no ordinary mathematician, as her university is soon to find out.

It must also be noted that Sirena Frome (rhymes with plume) was also a child of the sixties and has developed a liberal approach to and a distinct taste for sex. She is blonde, young and desirable, certainly not dumb. Wherever she goes, it seems not to take long before sensuality bubbles to a boiling surface.

And thus Sirena leads her author, Ian McEwan, into several relationships of varying frequency, quality and intensity. There’s a bloke who realises, through her, that he prefers other blokes. There’s an affair with an older man, a Cambridge tutor with a complex marriage and, as it turns out, other complexities as well. There is a colleague in her first job, facilitated by her complex older man, who gets nowhere with Sirena and leaves for pastures elsewhere. And there is Tom Hanley, a writer who develops a style that really hits the spot.

Sirena’s relatively brief fling with the older Cambridge tutor leads to a recommendation that she should apply for a job with the Civil Service. And this is not to be any old filing clerk position, but something with one of those secret outfits, MI5, no less. The talk and gossip about the office and the papers concentrates on some weighty issues of the day – miners’ strike, three-day weeks, Provisional IRA activities in Northern Ireland. As a woman, Sirena Frome believes she is probably at a disadvantage when the tasks are given out, with the big boys allowed to cherry-pick. They just don’t take women seriously, it seems, and the jobs they get are jokes.

And Sirena does get a job – cleaning. It leads elsewhere and soon she finds herself at the forefront of intelligence work, reading. Questions arise by chance and, of course, in a world where no-one trusts anyone, there are never any answers, only suggested half-truths. Some of the pieces, however, start to fit, and the picture becomes familiar. A colleague tries it on, but it doesn’t work out. He retreats, but skeletons are left in cupboards where we thought there was no furniture.

Sirena’s reading is focussed, its aim to decipher, perhaps lead opinion. In the end, isn’t intelligence about just that, what we think, what we assume? And who decides that? How is it that one career flourishes, leads to stardom and award, while others, apparently equally talented, wither and die, or at worst, stumble along in anonymity? Is this an area where intelligence services can usefully contribute? Is this a sensible question, given what we already know? And just which writers and works have benefitted in the past from virtual state sponsorship? Some will be revealed, suggested, at least.

This is where Tom Hanley appears. Academic, unlikely and unknown, he has produced some interesting work. It’s not especially noteworthy, we might fell, but there is potential. Exactly where might that potential lead? And who might take up the cause to offer support, guidance, influence? And precisely what role might Sirena play?

And it is here that Sweet Tooth displays its remarkable subtlety. It examines the concepts of fame, appreciation, critical acclaim and success, and even the nature of creativity, itself, in surprising ways, never via the head-on anguish we have come to expect. When writers write, who is it that is in control of the process? If art is the imitation of life, what forces shape the reality we experience? When we say we believe something, or adopt an opinion, just how much of it is generated on our behalf so that we might adopt it as a package? And can values be promoted? Of course they can, but by whom, and for what reasons? And who picks up the pieces should the whole thing backfire?

Sweet Tooth continues its way, relating a plot that involves treachery, deceit, double-dealing and a shifting of alliances that might constitute betrayal. At the heart of everything is sex, personal relationships and self-interest, however. The story lives through a passionate relationship between the clandestine Sirena and her writer. Though she desires permanence, Sirena can never reveal exactly who she is to her lover. Can he be open with her?

The novel thus presents a story related from a distant future, a reminiscence of what might have been. Throughout, Ian McEwan’s prose is nothing less than a joy, delicately transparent and arrestingly vivid at the same time. But, by the end, we are not even sure whose book has been written, or even who the real writer might have been. Until, that is, we immediately start it all over again. And then…

First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan

Having read much of Ian McEwan’s later work in the last few years, I was intrigued to chance upon a copy of First Love, Last Rites, a set of his short stories published in 1975. I read The Cement Garden and The Comfort Of Strangers just after their publication, but I have not picked up any early McEwan since then. First Love, Last Rites proved to be an eye-opening read, not least because hindsight offers real clues as to how Ian McEwan has developed as a writer.

The stories in this set vary from Disguises which, at around 20,000 words, might even be a novella, to Cocker At The Theatre which is definitely a short story. What characterises all of these tales, however, is that they focus on characters whose behaviour or personal culture might be seen as towards the minority end of taste. I use the word minority to indicate that only a few people would admit to such proclivities, not that they might comprise only a small element of generality. It was this concentration on arguably the freakish that allowed the nickname Ian Macabre to stick.

In First Love, Last Rites, for instance, we have a touch of incest, sexual intercourse on stage, not a little child abuse seasoned with transvestism, an episode of boiling in oil, childhood games that grow prematurely adult, rats scratching at the skirts and more. I am reminded of the photographs of Diane Arbus from roughly the same period. It seemed that wherever she pointed her camera, no matter how potentially mundane the shot might appear, there would be evidence of sadomasochism, bestiality, paedophilia, even meat-eating. It was this mix of what was understood as marginal mixed with the manifestly prosaic that caught the attention in the photographs and rendered them so disturbing. Viewing them reminded oneself of diverse aspects of humanity that – at least potentially – we all share and yet publicly try to deny. For the British, that might include all sex that cannot be advertised or sold. It certainly includes all the aspects of human behaviour listed above. I am not accusing all adults of paedophilia. I am suggesting that all of us have both privately and publicly appreciated the neat, taut beauty of a child’s body. 

The question, and it remains an interesting one, is where is the line between ‘normal’ appreciation of beauty and socially unacceptable ‘perversity’. I will never forget a trip around London’s National Gallery with a relative younger than myself, someone with little previous exposure to “art”. Her comment was that the paintings were pornographic, merely because they portrayed nudes. All Ian McEwan’s characters straddle this question’s necessary confusion. Maybe their acts are merely imagined, leaving the individuals grappling with aspects of themselves they cannot understand, admit or control. Maybe they do what they say but, as a result of some inner drive that others do not share, cannot comprehend their own marginality. Whatever the case, these peoples’ psyches must continually grapple with a conflict between a truth of what they are versus an image of what they believe themselves to be. There’s a gap of communication wide enough to allow most experience to fall through.

And it is these gaps that Ian McEwan exploits. He presents people in situations that for them might seem completely mundane. For the rest of us, these are highly individual worlds that publicly we do not expect to see. But, like the images of Diane Arbus, we find we can enter into them because those aspects of humanity are within us as well, though often we don’t like to admit it. Where Ian McEwan’s later work triumphs can now be seen more clearly. Whereas in the earlier work there was a need for a fundamental shift by the reader to admit a possible likeness with his characters, in his later work he presents the individual foibles of his characters in much more rounded, complex forms, forms that all of us can easily associate with. Then the contradictions emerge. Then the conflicts surface and then the gaps in communication widen. The approach is the same, but the effect is so much greater. First Love, Last Rites remains a brilliant read in its own right, but I reckon that for many readers of Ian McEwan a re-visit would shed much new light on his later work.

The Child In Time by Ian McEwan

Stephen Lawes appears to be pretty well-heeled. His successes seem remarkable. He is a successful writer of children’s books. He is acquainted with Charles Darke, who is apparently being groomed for a ministerial position in government. Via this connection, Stephen also sits on a Whitehall committee to examine policy options on childhood, children, education and related issues. He himself also seems to have the prime minister’s ear. He has a wife, Julie, who loves him and beautiful little three-year-old daughter, Kate, whom he worships. But then one day Kate is no longer there. On a trip to the shops with her father, there are events that take her out of her parents’ lives.

In her absence, Stephen continues to worship her, to see her walking along the street, in a school playground, perhaps everywhere he tries to look. Meanwhile life goes on, but for Stephen aspects of it begin to disintegrate. The child has stopped his time. There follows, in Ian McEwan’s novel, The Child In Time, an examination of childhood. 

In various guises, this biologically-fixed but socially-defined state is seen to influence and control the lives of the book’s characters. The fact that children are sexually and physically immature human beings whose characteristics are still developing seems pretty immutable. But what is it that demands they should eat special foods from special menus? Is it essential that the experience of childhood should be always multi-coloured, perhaps as a preparation for the unending greyness of adulthood? 

And why, in the twenty-first century is it deemed that children should not work, when in the nineteenth it was considered desirable, perhaps even essential for everyone’s greater well-being? If we are stressed in our daily lives, how much of our ability to cope, or not cope, stems from our ability to re-invent a child’s curiosity and enthusiasm, not to mention naiveté? And is this state also perhaps a place of protecting retreat? 

And how exactly did we manage to create this space? The Child In Time examines several strands of thought relating to infancy, childhood and dependency via the assumptions and reactions of adults. It is a novel with multiple parallel strands, more of a meditation on a theme than a focused, linear progression. It always plays with its ideas. But not all of them work. 

Charles Darke’s adoption of a second childhood, whether conscious or not, as a means of protecting himself from himself, is compellingly credible. But the presence of licensed beggars in a society not located in any particular time or any declared political ideology simply doesn’t wash. This science-fiction element of the book asks a sound but imagined question about our attitudes toward childhood, but jars with and detracts from the rest of the book’s recognisable landscape. 

 As ever, Ian McEwan mixes concepts of philosophy and sociology with the minutiae of daily life. Stephen Lawes does not seem to be wholly credible, however. His mix of interests and capabilities seems to be a tad too eclectic, too widely and thinly spread for him to come across as convincing in any discipline. At times, he seems even peripheral, dashing from one event to the next merely to witness what the author wanted to illustrate. But these are small criticisms of a magnificent book. Eventually the novel provides an uplifting experience. 

It takes the reader to places where the characters find themselves, places where they also want to be. Then, having reached their goal, much of what went before falls into new perspectives, and the whole process might just be ready to start again, but this time in socially-changed garb. It’s a bit like life, really... See this book on amazon The Child in Time

Masterpiece: On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

The fly cover of On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan describes the book as “a short novel of remarkable depth by a writer at the height of his powers”. On Chesil Beach was recently short-listed for the Man Booker Prize, but lost out to Anne Enright’s The Gathering. I have read both books and, for me at least, what is so amazing is the mere fact that two such utterly different concepts could have been considered for the same prize. It is reassuringly astounding that the “genre” of literary fiction can be home to every style, every emotion, every approach, every outcome, everything imaginable and much that is real. 

Those who write book blurbs are often prone to hyperbole. The greatest, the best, the most, the biggest, the most superlative are terms of mundane commonplace. The term “best selling” is usually an empty platitude. “Real” often signifies “very”, but without the latter’s imagined meaning. 

So what can we make of “a short novel of remarkable depth by a writer at the height of his powers”? In the case of On Chesil Beach this blurb is an understatement, but it is essentially accurate and justified. If I were to write a blurb for this Ian McEwan novel, I would use a single word: masterpiece. I will offer only the merest summary of the plot to provide context, because the book effectively deals with just one event, a newlywed couple’s wedding night. What happens to them is the book’s crucial point, so to reveal it would render the reading less rewarding. 

Suffice it to say that Edward and Florence are newlyweds and they are in a Dorset hotel for their honeymoon. This is the early 1960s, an era when sexuality was not discussed or even approached in the manner of even half a decade later. Edward and Florence are products of their age and of their upbringing. Ian McEwan tells us much of these aspects of their characters in asides and cameos throughout the narrative. 

When I reviewed the same writer’s Saturday, I described the book as time turned inside out. In that book, across the span of a single day, an entire family is presented through its past, its aspirations, its identities. On Chesil Beach accomplishes a similar feat across a smaller canvas, but in a much more concentrated form, replete with comment, detail, analysis and observation. Florence is solidly middle class, Edward less so. She is a violinist from a musical family. He likes Chuck Berry. They are deeply in love and they marry, but they remain children of their age, and there is the rationale for the book, an examination of their private ideas on how to cope with adulthood, alongside an account of the practicalities. 

On Chesil Beach has limited objectives, lives mainly in the events of a single evening, but, like Saturday, turn its time inside out, so we have beautifully detailed pictures of both of the nuptials’ families. Coping, or not, is what characterised the age. On Chesil Beach is a masterpiece, beautifully conceived and executed. Do read it. 

View this book on amazon On Chesil Beach