Annusare il vento
Il giardino di cemento ha il sapore di una fiaba gotica: ci sono quattro fratelli e una casa e basta. Prima c’erano stati una madre amata e ancora prima un padre scostante. La famiglia non aveva relazioni sociali e alla morte della madre i ragazzi, temendo di essere separati, non fanno sapere a nessuno di essere rimasti soli. Il lento svanire della madre è percepito con chiarezza solo dalla figlia maggiore, gli altri non sembrano spettatori consapevoli. Segue un’estate di abbandono, durante la quale i fratelli assaporano il lutto e la novità di non dover vivere secondo una routine. Annusano il vento e per la prima volta vivono senza guida, facendo solo quello che hanno voglia di fare. La ragazza più grande prende il sole in bikini e comincia a frequentare un boyfriend, quella più giovane legge e scrive un diario dedicato alla madre; il ragazzo smette di lavarsi e cambiarsi, ozia e spia le sorelle, delle quali è geloso , il fratellino più piccolo, di circa sei anni, si fa vestire da bambina. Tutto avviene in una grande casa con giardino, al margine di una periferia in via di trasformazione: case vengono abbattute, grattacieli vengono tirati su, fra la polvere dei cantieri resiste questa casa, avanzo architettonico come i quattro ragazzi sono il residuo di una famiglia. Il piccolo nucleo familiare per paura e disgusto del mondo esterno si ripiega completamente su se stesso, tutti cercano una guida nella sorella maggiore, lei si fa forte della fiducia dei fratelli. Pian piano sembra che l’ordine si stia ricostituendo, i ragazzi si ripuliscono e cominciano a ricreare una routine domestica. I rapporti fra i fratelli diventano sempre più esclusivi, finché l’escluso rompe l’incanto e il cemento e il mondo esterno irrompe nella loro vita. Sono stata colpita dal profondo senso di vuoto sociale che emana questa storia, questo vuoto lascia spazio alle soluzioni trovate dai ragazzi. La storia è raccontata dal punto di vista allucinato del fratello maggiore, che agisce e al tempo stesso è spettatore trasognato degli eventi. McEwan racconta con ammirevole sobrietà questa storia difficile, non troppo incredibile.

McEwan's darkly impressive fictional account of deprivation and survival during a long hot summer (probably 1976, the year of the drought in the UK) in which a four siblings are left to fend for themselves and create a seemingly alternate reality having been giving a short sharp push to total independence. Exquisitte prose and near perfect characterisations and script... a haunting engrossing tale. 9 out of 12

Αυτο το βιβλίο φαίνεται να αποτελεί τον ορισμο της βαρεμάρας. Όχι τόσο για τον αναγνώστη όσο για τον ίδιο το συγγραφέα. Δεν έχω ξαναδιαβασει μακΓιουαν, αλλα μου φανηκε κάπως ανευρο, σαν ο ιδιος ο συγγραφέας να βαρεθηκε το βιβλίο του, να μην εδωσε ό,τι μπορούσε να δώσει για την ιστορία και τους χαρακτηρες του. Κι αυτο βγαίνει προς τα εξω. Έντονα. Οχι οτι δεν το διαβασα με ευκολία ή οτι δεν είχε ενδιαφέρον ανα σημεία, αλλά δεν ήταν και κατι που θα θυμαμαι για καιρό. Σε γενικές γραμμές, όπως μαρτυρά και η βαθμολογία που το έδωσα, ηταν απλώς οκ. Ελπίζω τα άλλα δικά του να είναι πιο αξιόλογα αναγνώσματα γιατί σκοπεύω να ξαναδιαβάσω κάτι δικό του. Με την ελπίδα να βρω αυτό το "σπιρτόζικο" πνεύμα για το οποίο έχω ακούσει και, είναι δυνατόν, μια πιο ενδιαφέρουσα ιστορία.

Dear Queralt,

Don't read this.

Love,
Emmett

Premisa mi-a placut, la fel si desfasurarea evenimentelor, insa pe tot parcursul lecturii am simtit ca lipseste ceva, nu pot sa definesc exact ce anume.
Cu siguranta o sa mai incerc si alte carti de Ian McEwan.

this is the first novel by Ian McEwan that I have read. it is concise and tightly written and you really get the impression that McEwan understands his narrator, a 14-year-old boy who's parents have recently died, leaving four siblings on their own.

the two older siblings in effect become the head of the household, and make a decision to keep the family together that has troubling consequences.

that one can relate to the narrator is equally disturbing and heart breaking...

Sí bien es cierto que es mi segunda novela leída de McEwan (la primera fue, la también buenísima En las nubes), parece que haya leído dos autores distintos. Es decir, En las nubes me gustó, pero es que Jardin de cemento es sencillamente sublime.

Y la verdad es que llegué a ella gracias a no sé qué lista de aquí y me dio por buscarla, pero lo que no esperaba era merendármela en dos días.

La pequeña aventura de Jack y sus hermanas Julie y Sue, junto con su hermano Tom es algo rara de digerir una vez acabada, la verdad es que soy muy cansino con lo de explicar cómo me siento al acabar una novela, pero es que el poso que me dejan algunas es cojonudo y esta es de esas.

En todo caso, gracias al estilo del autor, me ha parecido una buenísima lectura y os la recomiendo. Yo, desde luego, no será lo último que lea de él.

Sarò io, ma non ho apprezzato molto. Mi ha ricordato un po' Abbiamo sempre vissuto nel castello, però non ho trovato realistici, né evocativi, i turbamenti e le anomalie dei quattro fratelli protagonisti del romanzo. E' un romanzo scritto bene, ma non mi ha lasciato molto, e l'ho trovato anche piuttosto anomalo accostato al resto della produzione dell'autore. Probabilmente leggerlo negli anni Settanta deve essere stata un'esperienza molto diversa.

I picked up this book at the library because "Atonement" wasn't available. Having seen the movie version of "Atonement" I figured that reading one of Ian McEwan's earlier works would be an ideal way of getting a good idea of what McEwan's writing style is like.
Having now read "The Cement Garden" I must say that whoever continued reading his books were brave people. If I had no idea that his storytelling abilities had improved I would never again read one of his books. In fact, I would probably look at all of his works with revulsion.
Yes, I do feel that strongly about "The Cement Garden." It had no discernable plot, the narration - although insightful to the mindset of a 14/15 year old boy - was disturbing, and there was no true ending. I'm a fan of nicely wrapped up endings and this ending left me with my jaw dropped and my eyes blinking rapidly. I'd had hopes of McEwan redeeming himself with some great ending, but it never arrived.

Jardín de cemento es una novela que te atrapa, a pesar de lo no convencional que nos presenta.
Me hizo pensar lo que le sucedió a esos niños/muchachos, en cómo hubiera reaccionado yo en la misma situación... (que definitivamente, dudo que hubiera procedido igual)
Creo que el autor nos maneja varios temas polémicos, por no decir tabú; pero los maneja muy bien y dentro del contexto que se maneja, uno los pasa por alto de momentos.

When I read the description for this book I expected to get a twisted, disturbing tale of incest. What I actually got was a very well written (mildly uncomfortable) story about four siblings who are lost and without an adult to set boundaries.

And really, instead of shocking me I was fascinated. It's short, sharp and packs a punch. I am however, highly annoyed with the ending. THAT WAS NOT OKAY. I like things to be wrapped up, I like to KNOW what happens next and not be left to come to my own conclusions.


Despite that, I still think this deserves 4.5 stars.

Q: Before his first heart attack he had intended to build a high wall round his special world. (c)

Both grass grows and paint dries more entertainingly than this plot goes about its squiggly and 'very special' business. A real chore to read and a strike against Ian McEwan's books. Had I not had a stellar experience with his Sweet Tooth (my fav!) I would've been tempted to classify him in with the hordes of authors who can't really write and so go on to be as shocking as possible.

Mind it, I wasn't really shocked by the plot, I was more bored into disgust. The MCs I can stand can be demented to their hears' pleasure, they can go vile and conniving and do atrocious stuff or be great dolts or go whining and dripping angst and I could stand them, if (and that's a big IF!) they have at least some braincells to throw around. Here, it looked like everyone was very mentally challenged by the simple act of living, they had no communication, exhibited no critical thinking… Their mental prowess did not exceed some slugs' one. I'm pretty sure we could find some brighter tapeworms around.

Going through their attempts at whatever passed for plot in here (shock value, only not too shocking) was about as entertaining as looking at earthworms going exploring after some rain.

Yes, I think that Ian McEwan was aiming at precisely this effect. But did he really? Just how interesting can cross-dressing cement-wielding kids get? Is it all that interesting how a boy can get 'successful' in masturbation for the first time? Incest action?

The very last line:
Q: “There!” she said. “Wasn’t that a lovely sleep?”(c)
is probably about the sleep of the mind, of the sanity and maybe even of a large part of humanity which's what the kids seem to have been busy with for the most part of the novel. Really, they do nothing, study nothing, are bored senseless and are generally just going even more mad than they started with. I think it was foreshadowed nicely when Julie was saying that she lost all concept of time and feels like they've always been this way.
While my lit professor probably would've loved thinking along these lines, in reality this could be just my brain thinking up stuff that the writer never actually thought. Maybe Ian was just as tired of this whole mess as I was by the end of it and just thought: 'Darn, I'll hand it in as it is and write something snazzier and making more sense the next time!'.

Fun time:
Q:
I frequently stared at myself in mirrors, sometimes for as long as an hour. …
I felt noble and unique. I stared at my own image till it began to dissociate itself and paralyze me with its look. It receded and returned to me with each beat of my pulse, and a dark halo throbbed above its head and shoulders. “Tough,” it said to me. “Tough.” And then louder, “shit … piss … arse.” (c)

Ewww!
Q:
I did not know what the cement was for, and I did not wish to be placed outside this intense community of work by showing ignorance. …
We argued all afternoon. She knew far more than I, but I was determined not to let her win. (c) Best way to find out ignorant people: they rarely ask questions.
Q:
He replaced the pipe between his teeth like a missing section of his own anatomy (c) Can't help thinking about dear old Freud and his 'pipe' ideas. Let's just hope that in this case he would've said that this time 'pipe's just a pipe'. LOL.
Q:
We looked into her mouth and between her legs with a torch and found the little flower made of flesh. (c)
Q:
That night Julie and I locked ourselves in her bedroom and set to work filling pages with crude overworked jokes. Everything we thought of seemed funny. We fell from the bed to the floor, clutching at our chests, screeching with delight. Outside Tom and Sue were banging on the door demanding to be let in. Our best jokes were, we thought, the question and answer ones. Several of them made references to Father’s constipation. (c) Thank goodness, we've no list of those.
Q:
The possibility that Julie and I were responsible for the disintegration filled me with horror and delight. (c)
Q:
It became apparent, probably through my mother, that the plan was to surround the house, front and back, with an even plane of concrete. …
In fact, a great expanse of concrete round the house appealed to me. It would be a place to play football. I saw helicopters landing there. Above all, mixing concrete and spreading it over a leveled garden was a fascinating violation. My excitement increased when my father talked of hiring a cement mixer. (c) That's the spirit!
Q:
Father never took her seriously, he said it was daft in a girl, running fast… (c)
Q:
She wore stockings and black knickers, strictly forbidden. (c) How were they gonna enforce knickers' color? No, don't tell me. I'm pretty sure I can't take seriously any country where knickers color ever was an official business. After reading 'The Trials of Nina McCall', I'm not inclined to think the author made this bit up.
Q:
At some point during the same period my spots were so thoroughly established across my face that I abandoned all the rituals of personal hygiene. I no longer washed my face or hair or cut my nails or took baths. I gave up brushing my teeth. In her quiet way my mother reproved me continuously, but I now felt proudly beyond her control. If people really liked me, I argued, they would take me as I was. (c) They probably would. Take him. And dip him in some lake to wash it off.
Q:
she had the quiet strength and detachment and lived in the separate world of those who are, and secretly know they are, exceptionally beautiful. (c)
Q:
There was a chair for each plate. I thought, As if we were real people. (c)