Extraordinary.

Ian McEwan ile tanışmak için güzel bir kitap seçmişim. Uzun zamandır böyle çarpıcı bir son ile biten kitap okumadım zannedersem. Psikolojik gerilim arayanları tam anlamıyla tatmin edecek bir eser. Pınar Kür'ün akıcı çevirisi ile kolay okunan, hikayesi durağan gibi seyreden ancak sonu bayağı tatmin edici bir kitaptı.

This was the first novel by Ian McEwan that I've read ages ago. I got a copy from a supermarket sale and read it in a day, wondering all the time how someone could write down so many nasty things and get away with it. Cut me some slack, I was 10.

So, as I sat to rediscover this classic, I hoped to feel at least a fraction of the weird pleasure this novel brought me back then. The thing is short - 120 pages long - and you can easily breeze through it in two hours.

I have to say that this might be McEwan's darkest book, but it's also his most nonsensical, beating even the infamous On Chesil Beach. NOTHING in this book makes any sort of sense whatsoever, and the plot can be best described as "two morons go on a holiday where they meet two crazy people who do horrible things to them for no apparent reason". McEwan can write and the best thing about this novel is his prose, but unfortunately he proves that he can write about nothing in particular and not only get away with it but also win accolades for his fiction.

Amazingly impropable plot developments (the couple goes to the beach when the sky is completely overcast, and is even described as being black...the bars are closed at 9PM in a big city(!) and when the couple find a bar, the waiter refuses to serve them water(!!)) combined with amazingly stupid and inconsistent character actions (the man our couple meets is a thug with a gold chain, who shares on the spot the story how his father abused his siters and how they took revenge of thim, which included a lot of feces and turkish rugs - AND THEY GO AWAY WITH THIS DUDE TO HIS HOUSE, it's true check for yourself!) combined with a lot of calculated, creepy stuff thrown in for further shock value (the man tells the girl that he'd like to bind her to a machine that would constnatly penetrate her body, even after her death - and she tells him that she'd like to cut his limbs off and keep him for sex - AND THESE PEOPLE HAVE CHILDREN, thank God this is fiction!) combined with a lot of schtooping and booze (the two lovers eat practically nothing, sleep in the streets(!), drink gallons of alcohol and when they get back to a hotel they make sweet and passionate love for like FOUR DAYS - what was McEwan thinking?).

All of this is written in McEwan's cool, detached prose, with not a smile in sight, which leads me to the interpretation that he was writing this as a satire of some sorts, a black comedy, a spoof, daring the reader to laugh out loud. But the back blurb speaks about "an elegant and miniature gothic...smooth and classy", and McEwan himself stares at me with his confident, serious look from the author portrait, which means that both he and the readers actually took this stuff seriously. How they could is beyond me. Is everyone stupid? Maybe the paragraph where the man reveals the fact that he feels an emptiness between his scrotum and anus was to be taken as "the power of evil"? Or when they find themselves naked in the house of the guy they've meet (the feces guy) and accept his dinner proposition is to be taken as "erotic menace"? I don't known. Stupidier things happened to people, but nowhere you'll find a cumulation of them more embarassingly put together than in The Comfort of Strangers.

Son satıra kadar bitmeyen gerilim ve düşmeyen temposu ile kısacık kitapta ne engin denizlere açılabileceğinizin kanıtıdır.
McEwan okumak her zaman ayrı bir deneyimdir diyerek tabii ki tavsiye ediyorum.
Keyifli okumalar!

This is a pretty average Ian McEwan novel for the most part. His magnificent use of the English language is evident, as always; the setting is vague but also familiar, the tone of the entire novel is mysterious, eerie, sinister, with a little noir. It is quite easy to be drawn into the stories apprehensive and dark mood. It is also almost an alternate universe, in which I found myself easily suspending my disbelief in order to accept Mary and Colin 's illogical decisions. Somehow, it seemed that their willingness to participate in the fantasies of Robert and Caroline was the only choice they could make. McEwan, again, unlocks the door to the dark side of humanity, revealing its intricacies for his readers.

I did feel that his charqcterization here lacked depth. I am sure touching only the surface of these characters served its own purpose, but I felt the need to actually empathize with some, and was unfortunately not provided the opportunity within the lines of his storytelling. The story seemed meant to be read with a certain amount of emotional distance, and while I did like it, I was left feeling empty.

A short, intriguing read with an immersive quality, but definitely not among Ian McEwan's best.

Creepy and spare, this will not be among my favorite of McEwan's remarkable oeuvre. And yet. The Comfort of Strangers was published nearly thirty-five years ago and there is a timelessness about its tone and the shadowy, shuddery story. Perhaps because its setting-Venice (unnamed, but sketched down to the detail of aroma of decay and filtered sunlight)-has not changed. McEwan carefully withheld markers of politics and pop culture, as if somehow knowing the story's potential to live past its Last-Days-of-Disco era. It's fascinating to read this early novel, McEwan's second, to see the same elegant, structured prose, but absent of the warmth and humanity he's achieved in later works. The Comfort of Strangers is like a highly-stylized, black-and-white neo-noir, where the actors say profound things that make little sense. But it's still pretty cool.

This is the earliest McEwan work I’ve read (1981). I could see the seeds of his classic themes: obsession, sexual and otherwise; and the slow building of suspense and awareness until an inevitable short burst of violence. Mary and Colin are a vacationing couple in Venice. One evening they’ve spent so long in bed that by the time they get out all the local restaurants have shut, but a bar-owner takes pity and gives them sustenance, then a place to rest and wash when they get lost and fail to locate their hotel. Soon neighborly solicitude turns into a creepy level of attention. McEwan has the knack for presenting situations that are just odd enough to stand out but not odd enough to provoke an instant recoil, so along with the characters we keep thinking all will turn out benignly. This reminded me of Death in Venice and The Talented Mr. Ripley.

Review of 'The Comfort of Strangers' by Ian McEwan.
Recommended for: Travel phobiacs,Armchair travellers,McEwan fans

Travel advisory by Ian McEwan:

Do not travel.
Do not travel to Venice(& Amsterdam as well).
Do not go to Venice in summer as the soporific  heat dulls the senses & makes you behave like an airhead.
Must have heavy lunch so in case you miss your dinner,you won't go looking for a hotdog stall outside a bar through dark & deserted alleyways.
Better take your children along so you won't find time & privacy for lovemaking & stuff so you won't fall asleep & miss your dinner & go looking for that above mentioned hotdog stall.
Do not talk to/follow strangers: esp. when that stranger happens to be wearing a clingy semi-transperant shirt,slashed down to the waist & is always touching you & your partner while talking.

Am i sounding facetious? I'm not sure.
The comfort of Strangers plays upon the inherent fears & apprehensions of an average traveller: The fear of an unknown place/culture/language,the fear of getting lost but most of all the pressure to"enjoy a holiday".

Tourism remains one of the mainstays of any economy but let's be truthful,travelling is stressful (unless it's an all expense paid vacation) & with increasing restrictions on airtravel,the packing & unpacking,the bloodpressure sure shoots up.

Ironically the lead characters here are Europeans,in an European city & still fail to find their moorings! Tellingly the best part of their holiday is spent,cooped up inside their hotel room,rediscovering their lost passion for each-other:

"The thing about a successful holiday is that it makes you want to go home."
Indeed going away would've been better than the fate that awaited them.

It's a twisted little tale where the guilty party is first presented in such a sympathetic light that you don't initially root for the wronged couple,snickering that these dumbos deserve it but as the penultimate & final chapters play out,you realise,horrified,that these are"ordinary people" like us.

Robert is one of those psychopathic characters in literature that are fascinating & chilling at the same time: a product of a cold & cruel household,he is a damaged person,possibly a victim of incest (the "bad dreams" of his childhood) & a repressed homosexual (the hint is that his horrible father is also one).

I'm reminded of Blanche duBois from 'A Streetcar Named Desire',who,while being led away to be institutionalised,says that she has always depended on the kindness of strangers. Poor Blanche,bereft of all the vestige of her once genteel Southern past,still can't bring herself to use the loaded word 'comfort' & settles for'kindness'

Now that Goodreads is all agog with reviews upon reviews on books like Fifty Shades of Grey & others of its ilk,with everybody jumping on the bandwagon with pretend reviews & parodies,books like The Comfort of Strangers are reminders that some one's twisted fantasies become another's horrific nightmare.

Think about that.

Inquietante e infine crudele.
Che scrittura limpida ed esatta.

Introduction:

As I have taught teenagers the art of writing an essay, and they have taught me the art of detecting a shortcut, I will apply it here (the shortcut, that is), for honestly, the deeply hidden teenager in me tells me that I should not, under any circumstances, waste too much time writing a review of this book. To search for a reasonable plot, characterisation, or purpose (except for cheap voyeurism and violence) is quite futile. I should, however, mark it as read and forgettable before I forget it again. So here is the review, with quotes and all:

(Teacher’s note and feedback: "Do not speak of yourself and your experience in the introduction, remain neutral!" Student’s reaction: “I am not neutral!”)

Main Body:

(Teacher’s note and feedback: "Do not call the main body of your essay main body, come up with something more telling!" Student’s change: “The Novel”)

For my essay, I will use two significant quotes from the novel and paraphrase them to match my reading experience. (Teacher’s note: "Try to find a more subtle transition from introduction to main part!" Student’s question: "Why? And how?")

Quote 1 from the text:

“She sleepwalked from moment to moment, and whole months slipped by without memory, without bearing the faintest imprint of her conscious will. ”

Paraphrase to explain reader’s experience:

“She sleepwalked from page to page, and whole chapters slipped by without memory, without bearing the faintest imprint of her conscious will. ”

(Teacher’s note: "Can you explain that more in detail, please?" Student: "No, I have forgotten the rest!")

Second reference from the text, as required in the rubric:

“What tended to happen, to Colin and Mary at least, was that subjects were not explored so much as defensively reiterated, or forced into elaborate irrelevancies, and suffused with irritability.”

Paraphrase:

“What tended to happen, reading McEwan at least, was that subjects were not explored so much as defensively reiterated, or forced into elaborate irrelevancies, and suffused with irritability.”

Conclusion:

I think this student has studied Ian McEwan enough to make the decision to give it up entirely for the time being, and to explore other realms of literature from now on. There is not much to hope for! His novels are a mixed bag, some are tolerably good, others are interesting at least, and some are just plain forgettable. The last two or three I read were of the forgettable kind, and there is just too much good stuff to read out there to repeatedly engage in “reiterations of elaborate irrelevancies”. Ten or eleven of Ian McEwan’s novels are more than enough!

Note from student to teacher: "I fulfilled the rubric, so you will have to give me the marks. And it is okay to present your own opinion in the conclusion. You said so yourself!"

Note from teacher: "Be careful to consistently use formal language. Grade and individual, detailed feedback will be returned after Christmas break!"

Student: "Oh, come on!"

Teacher: "I am a human being as well, and need my weekends!"

Student: "Unreliable statement, lacking evidence!"

Teacher: "These kids nowadays leave me speechless… but they are more entertaining than the novel I just read! I wonder if my Student Alter Ego even read it?"

Student: "No, Teacher Alter Ego, I did not. For if I had, I would have told you that it is not for students: gratuitous violence, unmotivated, random story lines, superficially shocking…"

Teacher Alter Ego: "Fair enough, is would not have been possible to make a proper characterisation or plot analysis either, as the protagonists are completely unrealistic: who would follow a stranger to his house and listen to his stupid life story and then return despite clear indications that he is brutal and manipulative…"

Student Alter Ego: "My point precisely. I stopped listening to him and went home before it got creepy!"

Teacher Alter Ego: "Good, then we don’t have to add spoilers. How are we going to rate it?"

SAE: "The book I haven’t read, you mean?"

TAE: "But I have, unfortunately, - side effect of the profession. So?"

SAE: "Give it 2 stars, then. It is not as bad as The Alchemist or The Da Vinci Code."

TAE: "Good point. 2 stars. But no recommendation."

"They often said they found it difficult to remember that the other was a separate person. [...] It was precisely this collusion that made them vulnerable and sensitive to each other, easily hurt by the rediscovery that their needs and interests were distinct."

I loved reading Ian McEwan's The Comfort of Strangers (1981). Captivating plot that skillfully builds atmosphere of menace and dread, remarkable psychological insights, outstanding prose, and - maybe most important – very small volume (fewer than 120 pages) would usually guarantee an at least four-star rating from me. Yet toward the end of the novella, something happened to my reception of the book. I remember the moment when my enthusiasm - quite suddenly - waned and a feeling of disappointment crept in.

Colin and Mary, an unmarried couple who have been with each other for seven years, are on vacations in an unnamed tourist city (obviously Venice, Italy). They do touristy things, they smoke a joint now and then, they have sex. They are both attractive and have been in the acting profession. The unfamiliar city seems like a maze to them: they keep getting lost in the tangle of small streets and alleys and can never find the way to where they want to get. The author convincingly builds the atmosphere of a bad dream where nothing dreadful really happens, but the feeling of doom intensifies with each moment. The reality becomes more and more "off-centered" and tinged with shades of nightmare. One day Colin and Mary meet a stranger, Robert, and that meeting will change their lives forever. Obviously not in a good way.

The "off-centeredness" and the disturbing feel remind me of  The Vanishing , Tim Krabbé’s great thriller, made even more remarkable by the Dutch author’s good writing. I believe, though, that Mr. McEwan aspired to something deeper than a thriller. One can find some first-rate psychological stuff in Comfort: Colin and Mary having difficulties with separating their identities, the passages about missing the comfort of daily routine of their non-vacation lives, or the thread about how they love each other but not necessarily at any particular moment. I only wish the novella focused more on these themes.

I also love the humor: some of it subtle and a little nightmarish like when Mary is thirsty and cannot get a sip of water in the middle of all these canals, and then finally gets to a restaurant where the waiter offers her an espresso. There are lighter moments as well, for instance, Mary and Colin spend four days not leaving the hotel, occupied mainly with having sex and talking about all things sexual. It is then when Colin invents for Mary

"[...] a large, intricate machine, made of steel, painted bright red and powered by electricity; it had pistons and controls, straps and dials, and made a low hum when it was turned on [...]"

I will stop quoting here so as not to be accused of prurient interests.

McEwan's prose is wonderful: precise and economical, with no unneeded words. Nothing like his newer books, which I find interesting and readable yet overwrought and bloated. I also enjoy the visuals: while the Venice-like setting reminds me of the equally disturbing and very good movie Don't Look Now (1973), the feel of being lost in a maze brings memories of the great 1961 film Last Year in Marienbad. All this is wonderful stuff.

So what don't I find wonderful? The "crime thread", even if it is its inevitability that is the main point rather than the events themselves. I strongly dislike Robert's story of his childhood; I find it superfluous and spoiling the structure of the plot. Yet what mainly caused my enthusiasm about the book to evaporate was that the author explains why things happen. By providing explanations, he robs the plot of its mystery feel. Like a magician who, having performed a spectacular trick, shows how exactly we have been had. Very disappointing to me! I felt almost exactly the same when reading the very ending of the superb  On Chesil Beach  (McEwan’s book that I like the most, so far). By explaining the motives of human actions, the author takes away from me the option of interacting with the fiction. As a reader, I love to be a co-creator of the fictions and participate in figuring out the reasons why things are as they are rather than being spoon-fed by the author.

To sum up, Comfort, while a very good book, is flawed for me.

Three-and-three-quarter stars

(With thanks to my Goodreads friend, Judith, for the recommendation. I also "borrowed" from her the word 'doom' that captures the mood – ‘doom’ is ‘mood’ spelled backwards - in the novella.)

Início enfadonho, logo superado pelo tom do primeiro ponto crucial, o monólogo do antagonista. A partir daí, tudo absolutamente no lugar: cada ação periférica dialogando com a questão do conflito de gênero, cerne do livro. Final cruelmente apoteótico, típico do primeiro McEwan. Um "Morte em Veneza" moderno.