What a mess of a book! I was perpetually swung violently between 70% deep irritation and 30% sharp delight. In the end, however, I decided that the 30% delight, the 30% truth, the 30% cleverness, was not enough to change my negative opinion of the novel (more like a novella). The good parts are pieces of pebbles, like the shingles on the Chesil Beach as McEwan described, too randomly scattered among the 70% silliness and artificiality.
I suspect, and the suspicion grew stronger as I approached the end, that the book is deep down misogynistic, although McEwan was ever so careful in disguising this sentiment with a plot device, which he correctly chose to only hint at but not fully reveal because doing so would have expose the fact that it is a device, a gimmick, and a pretty cheap one too, to cover up his resentment and coldness toward the female character.
Oh yeah, the story. A young couple, both 22, both virgins, got married in 1962, on the eve of the sexual and social revolution that was to sweep away all the barriers that, at this moment, irreversibly separate them on their wedding night. The groom, Edward, was from a country family of the lower class with a healthy sexual appetite and physical attraction to his new wife. The bride, Florence, came out of an upper class Oxford family and was a classically trained musician; she was terrified and disgusted of sex. And so they had a pathetic and disastrous wedding night. And they fought.
The structure is intricate. Too intricate. Too deliberate. Every anecdote serves a purpose and often way too obviously so. But the pieces float around without jelling together. Again these pieces were 30% gem and 70% ridiculous silliness. The two main characters (all the supporting figures were so sketchy that they were barely shadows) did not come to life after all, despite the occasional flashes of brilliant observations.
The language is precise---not unlike Eileen Chang in some sense---but short and very accessible. Just sophisticated enough for the vanity of academic critics and just digestible enough for the palate of the average reader. No wonder his novels have become best sellers.
Playing with the concept of time, especially its elasticity in fiction. Sure. Whatever. Blah blah blah. The ending is not a clever exploration of time but is just stupid. Hinting at class separation and conflicts that are represented in sexual disruptions. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all been there and done that with far more brutal honesty over half a century ago. And oh the horror of innocence, the evil of naivete, the danger of ignorance. Boo hoo.
What's worst for me about the book is the fractured character study that never convinced and the carefully hidden emotional manipulation and coldness on the author's part.
I guess one can always argue that the unsatisfying details, the inconsistency in the characters, the silliness and emptiness, and the lack of believability of On Chesil Beach are not flaws but sophisticated, deep, superior modernist metafiction techniques and themes blah blah blah, as the New York Times review has praised:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/books ... hem-t.html
The review just convinces me that I would be even less inclined to read Mr. Lethem's novel than I am to read another McEwan. Thanks but no thanks.
