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A stunning, lyrical saga about love, war, guilt, forgiveness, and of course, the uncertainty inherent in our vantage points and hence our perceptions. Briony, a fanciful thirteen-year-old is so consumed with her version of the narrative that she cannot grasp the lasting damage it would cause and the lives it would destroy. A crime is committed by her in the haze of adolescent immaturity, which proves fateful for those who unwittingly get dragged into it. Is redemption possible for this unlikely perpetrator? And what about the adults who unthinkingly condone her actions? Do they have a share in the guilt like they have a share in the deed? And can making amends later – after maturity prods one to examine past decisions – change anything, apart from quelling the unrelenting pangs of remorse? Can one stitch back the broken shell that a person becomes?
A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.
The first part of the novel traces that ill-fated day in 1935 when Briony's confusion between fantasy and reality changes everything. The tone of the narrative modifies according to the shifts in the points of view – an indulgent, gently humorous flavour for the young, much-loved child Briony which subsequently transforms to bewilderment and self-consoling as her story takes an ominous turn; a dazed, wistful mood for the lovers and finally solemnity and reflection for the events that follow in the second and third parts. Oh, I revelled in the glorious writing and the polished prose which laid bare the inner worlds of the characters. Each sentence is beautifully crafted, almost too perfect, and portrays, in the author's words, "the crystalline present moment through the onward roll of the conscious mind". There are trivial drawbacks to this focus on capturing the present, on reproducing all that one thinks, feels, and sees – sometimes descriptions of moss, algae, and migraines usurp the attention reserved for finer emotions but I'm not complaining. I'm in awe of the strikingly beautiful compositions of McEwan and some of the other contemporary English writers that I've had a chance to read: The Line of Beauty by Allan Hollinghurst, On Beauty by Zadie Smith, and The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
My heart is bursting with things to say about this book of rare, timeless beauty but however desperately I try to convey them, I fall short of words. As a feeble excuse for my ineptitude, I wanted to drench your screen with lovely phrases from this very quotable masterpiece but you must have already come across them. I wanted to tell you about the hopelessness of war and even the perspective it bestows on us, of making all concerns seem tiny and forgettable, of reminding us of the importance of love. Instead, I will tell you that a nurse who was tending to the injured in the Second World War described the highs of her work as "moments of impersonal tenderness and elated, generalised love".. Isn't that something to remember? And on a lighter note, an astute observation by the author might make you smile "Communal singalongs had a faintly coercive quality".
Lastly, in one hell of a twisted Epilogue, McEwan suggests that as a writer, it is essential to impart hope. What good would more bleakness do? There's enough of it around us. I agree.
A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.
The first part of the novel traces that ill-fated day in 1935 when Briony's confusion between fantasy and reality changes everything. The tone of the narrative modifies according to the shifts in the points of view – an indulgent, gently humorous flavour for the young, much-loved child Briony which subsequently transforms to bewilderment and self-consoling as her story takes an ominous turn; a dazed, wistful mood for the lovers and finally solemnity and reflection for the events that follow in the second and third parts. Oh, I revelled in the glorious writing and the polished prose which laid bare the inner worlds of the characters. Each sentence is beautifully crafted, almost too perfect, and portrays, in the author's words, "the crystalline present moment through the onward roll of the conscious mind". There are trivial drawbacks to this focus on capturing the present, on reproducing all that one thinks, feels, and sees – sometimes descriptions of moss, algae, and migraines usurp the attention reserved for finer emotions but I'm not complaining. I'm in awe of the strikingly beautiful compositions of McEwan and some of the other contemporary English writers that I've had a chance to read: The Line of Beauty by Allan Hollinghurst, On Beauty by Zadie Smith, and The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
My heart is bursting with things to say about this book of rare, timeless beauty but however desperately I try to convey them, I fall short of words. As a feeble excuse for my ineptitude, I wanted to drench your screen with lovely phrases from this very quotable masterpiece but you must have already come across them. I wanted to tell you about the hopelessness of war and even the perspective it bestows on us, of making all concerns seem tiny and forgettable, of reminding us of the importance of love. Instead, I will tell you that a nurse who was tending to the injured in the Second World War described the highs of her work as "moments of impersonal tenderness and elated, generalised love".. Isn't that something to remember? And on a lighter note, an astute observation by the author might make you smile "Communal singalongs had a faintly coercive quality".
Lastly, in one hell of a twisted Epilogue, McEwan suggests that as a writer, it is essential to impart hope. What good would more bleakness do? There's enough of it around us. I agree.