Category Archives: mcewan

Saturday: It Takes One to Know One (p. 64-70)

I.               Henry Perowne Doesn’t Get Literature It’s pretty obvious that the good doctor’s thoughts on literature are not entirely McEwan’s, otherwise our humble author would be puttering away in a lab somewhere and I wouldn’t be doing this. Emphasis on … Continue reading

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Saturday: The Suck Begins (p. 57-64)

This is, as we will soon discover, the section with the Iraqi torture victim. But first, a word about description. As a teenager, I spent far too much time on (the late, lamented) Anti-shur’tugal, a website devoted to picking apart … Continue reading

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Saturday: In the Beginning McEwan Created the Heavens and the Earth (p. 53-57)

This one’s gonna be short, ‘cos it’s a short section. A fifth of the way in, and the big protest today was only mentioned…once. One could be forgiven for not remembering there’s a protest on at all. It takes four … Continue reading

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Related to Previous Post

I dug up this Lenin’s Tomb quote from 2006 that presents a different angle to this Saddam-as-child thing. Violence belongs, so much is apparent, to the White Man. Violence in ‘our’ hands is rational, instrumental, necessary, noble, compassionate even. In … Continue reading

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Saturday: Wish I Was Old and a Little Sentimental (p. 37-53)

Three guesses where the title came from, and the first two don’t count. Perowne heads upstairs. On his way to the main stairs, he pauses by the double front doors. They give straight on to the pavement, on to the … Continue reading

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Saturday: I Got the Rich White Boy Blues (p. 25-37)

Twenty-five pages in and the sun hasn’t risen yet. Just FYI. Anyway. It is here we are introduced to Henry’s son, up-and-coming blues musician Theo Perowne, described thusly: …eighteen years old, his formal education already long behind him, reclining on … Continue reading

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Saturday: You Can, Apparently, Get Away With Self-Insertion If You Won the Booker Prize (p. 18-25)

Still no AU/JP travelougues, alas, but that’s because I’m writing this on the seventh and scheduling it for the thirteenth. As one does. Anyway, it’s pretentious epigraph time! Perowne dictated monotonously, and long after his secretary went home he typed … Continue reading

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