Oof
This is the second Ian McEwan novel I've read, the other being Atonement earlier in the year. A part of that book managed to stick with me, the journey of one of the characters across a war-torn France, and so I thought it would be worth giving another of his a try despite knowing there were elements I disliked. Well, it turns out I just really dislike the characters he writes...and there is a common theme. The self-confidence of privilege that exists in every character, borne out by the casually handled success of each of them. It makes his stories seem so utterly unbelievable.
In this one the protagonist, Henry Perowne, is a successful, well-respected neurosurgeon. His wife is a solicitor for a newspaper, doing important legally stuff. His daughter is a poet on the verge of her first publication and his son is a preternaturally talented blues guitarist, of course. They live in a 7,000 square-foot house in London with high ceilings and a fucking chandelier. There is no mention of a nanny or a cleaner... This family is barely grounded in the real world. Nevertheless, we get to see through the eyes of this 'every-man' as he travels around London on the day of the 2003 anti-war protest (I happened to be there, but then, so was a sizable portion of the UK population). We get to work through his judgments on the protestors and ruminations on geo-politics, suitably vague and vacuous.
Henry is possessive over his wife, a former patient, but concerningly more possessive over his adult daughter, expressing repeated concern over the idea that she may love other men. Not much more to say about that but it just felt weird.
There is a villain in the story but he is an example of medically-induced villainy which leads to a conclusion that wouldn't have found disfavour with the phrenologists of old.
Henry, as the victim of this villain, nevertheless ends up saving his life with his neurosurgeon superpowers. And, as the book closes he ponders encouraging his family to forgive the villain and even seek some means to lessen the future suffering from his medical issue. "Is this forgiveness...is this weakness?" he asks. No Henry, this is self-serving pity. Pity that demonstrates to yourself a position of superiority, and a justification for paternalistic control over the misfortune of others.
I feel like I could rant about this for too long so I'm stopping myself here. I won't be reading any more McEwan.
Finished reading - 18/09/26