In Saturday by Ian McEwan, you get just what you are told you are going to get – the story of a Saturday in someone’s life. Through the activities of this one day and the memories they evoke we get to know the main character Henry Perowne very well. He is a fortunate man. He likes his job; loves his wife; gets along with his children; has good friends. So where does the novel’s necessary conflict come from?
Early in the day, Henry watches local demonstrations against the Iraq war on television. As the day progresses, the demonstrations intrude on his own life when he has a small automobile accident because of a detour. The repercussions of this build, leading to a crisis in his home.
This thin line of a plot ties together the episodes of his day. Each activity is very heavily detailed. In the description of the squash game with his friend, lob by lob, serve by serve, return by return, every action and emotion is reported. When he talks about his profession of neurosurgery, word after esoteric medical word describes his specialty. What is the point of this onslaught of detail? Does McEwan expect the reader to enjoy a vicarious game of squash? Educate himself on the details of brain surgery?
This part of the book doesn’t work. Instead of providing a link into the situation, the dense details build a wall too thick to penetrate. The interesting concepts of a life told in one day, the invasion of a distant war into a happy life are offset by a surfeit of unwanted details.
For Donna Leon fans who have missed it, she has a new mystery just published in March. Leon has been a longtime favorite of mine ever since I read her first, Death at La Fenice, published in 1992. It, and Sea of Troubles, book ten, are two of my all-time favorite mysteries. Leon has written a book a year for thirty years; what an accomplishment!
Her appealing detective is well developed and after a few books I knew him well. Brunetti, lover of gourmet food often cooked by his wife, drinker of excellent wine found throughout his home city of Venice, reader of classical literature, is the star around whom the novels revolve. There is also Leon’s devotion to social justice and environmental issues, her love of Venice, and the ability to compose a compelling plot with a riveting climax. When she gets the balance right, the book is terrific.
Among thirty books, all are not equally terrific, but her latest, Transient Desires, is one of the better ones. Here, the issue is human trafficking and the difficulties of apprehending just one player. Leon’s familiar jabs at bureaucracy, interest in the skilled reading and playing of suspects, her admiration of Elettra’s magical computer skills are all present. I don’t usually think of pacing as a characteristic of a novel, but Leon’s is distinctive and shines here. It is like a piece of music, slow, stately, powerful, building to a crescendo, gripping, and tragic.
The only music in Michael Stanley’s Kubu mystery series is the detective’s love of opera. His wife can tell when a case is going badly because he stops his energetic accompaniments. Written by the South African duo Michael Sears and Stan Trollip, A Carrion Death is the first in this excellent series.
Our detective, Kubu, which means hippopotamus, is black, very heavy, and like the Venetian Brunetti enjoys his meals and wine. Like the real hippo, his instincts are sharp and he moves surely through the twists and turns of an intricate plot full of red herrings. The mystery unfolds against the grandeur of the Botswana countryside, diamond mines, witch doctors and traditional cultural practices leavened with state-of-the-art satellite imagery and computer technology.
A friend posted this wonderful little comment by Jane Goodall on Facebook: “It actually doesn’t take much to be considered a difficult woman. That’s why there are so many of us.” And then my friend added: “The only way to not be a difficult woman is to be a doormat.”
I thought of this when I watched the Hemingway special on PBS. His first two wives commented on how they would devote their lives solely to him, and so they did. They would always be available. One said he would come before her children. And how did he treat them? Doormat is the correct answer.
I meant to end here, but in thinking further about Hemingway, I would like to add that he is a good example of the difference between an artist and his work. I really like his spare style and whenever excerpts of his work were read my head came up from the catalogs I was browsing through and I was caught by just those few lines.
I really like your comment about the difference between the artist and his/her work. That can be said of artists in many fields. I think of the brilliant composer Richard Wagner who was a Nazi. So one can like the creation while not admiring the creator. Such a dichotomy.
I agree with everything Diane says about Saturday except that amid this amiable busy life an unexpected intrusion from the outside world makes complacency impossible. Outside forces in the form of Iraq war protest and a semi-crazed criminal take over his life completely. And the point is made that we are all part of a larger world than our own narration would have us believe.