I Know the Pieces Fit

Every time I read Ian McEwan I feel horribly inadequate, and yet by the end of each book all sorts of new ideas have sprouted, and suddenly I'm ready to go to work again. I guess that's why I keep returning to his stories.

I purchased The Cement Garden six months ago, and it's been sitting on my desk all this time, ready to go, but it wasn't until Tuesday morning that I finally dove in. The past three mornings I've awakened an hour early and read at the cafe around the corner. It's been great. And now that I've finished it I feel like I've experienced something profound. I also feel like a sick bastard for having thoroughly enjoyed it.

That's the genius of Ian McEwan. He takes each narrative to unconscionable levels - I mean most of his stories are just wrong - but he does it in such subtle ways, with such sharp prose, that when you finally realize what is taking place it's too late. You're already hooked, and you devour every word from that point on, even if you walk away feeling dirty.

And just like clockwork I finished The Cement Garden this morning at 9:55, and on the ensuing twelve-minute walk to work, just like with First love, Last Rites and In Between the Sheets, I saw my next project - a novel at that - and all these years of trying to put together seemingly unconnected fragments made sense. The pieces suddenly fit, and when I think about reasons to justify why I like an artist so much, I can think of no greater compliment. He makes me want to write, and he makes me want to do it in better ways than the last time.