Ian McEwan: On Chesil Beach

[Stewart]

While most of the Booker debate regarding Ian McEwan?s On Chesil Beach was about its length and whether it qualified as a novel, I say it didn?t actually matter since, back in 1980, J.L. Carr?s A Month In The Country was much shorter yet made the shortlist. The other charge of course was that it?s an Amsterdam, an inferior novel being pushed to rewards while the better stuff goes unrecognised. Well I quite liked Amsterdam, so I was looking forward to On Chesil Beach. And it didn?t disappoint. Not entirely, anyway.

Florence and Edward are newlyweds - and virgins, this being 1962 when ?a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible?. After their wedding they have taken themselves off to their honeymoon suite facing onto Chesil Beach. Here they have a meal they have little appetite for before moving to the bedroom to consummate their marriage. It?s this latter event that provides much of the novel?s (or is that novella?s?) tension, for while Edward has waited and waited to make love to his wife (?though his fear of failure was great, his eagerness - for rapture, for resolution - was far greater?), Florence has been dreading the day:

Florence suspected that there was something profoundly wrong with her, that she had always been different, and that at last she was about to be exposed. Her problem, she thought, was greater, deeper, than straightforward physical disgust; her whole being was in revolt against a prospect of entanglement and flesh; her composure and essential happiness were about to be violated. She simply did not want to be ?entered? or ?penetrated?. Sex with Edward could not be the summation of her joy, but was the price she must pay for it.

The way in which McEwan tells the story of this couple works well, dipping between their thoughts and anxieties. One page has us seeing Edward?s happiness to have his new wife, yet worrying over whether, when they go to bed, he will, as the euphemism goes, ?arrive too soon?. Then it?s a trip into Florence?s head as she gripes about how she dislikes kissing (and all other contact, really) and how she can?t be a good wife if she can?t even contemplate fulfilling what she believes are her duties as a wife. But, interspersed with these wedding day worries, are sections of pure exposition that head back into their lives prior to current events. Sure, it gives them a background, but it feels all so unnecessary, taking the reader out of the moment (which is truly interesting) and giving a family history lesson that we could do without.

Even where the structure is a let down, the prose remains a joy. McEwan?s choice of words demonstrates his particular talent at painting, with a few measured strokes, a whole scene. And when he gets into the mind of his characters he truly explores them to the point that we know that beyond the page their lives still go on. But On Chesil Beach does suffer by the time the end comes round. What had started as a slowly lapping wash of narrative becomes, in its closing pages, a tsunami of events flashing forward into the future, explaining the relationship.

Without the lengthy flashbacks explaining the newlyweds, On Chesil Beach would certainly be in novella country, and perhaps that?s where it should have stayed. The study of two people whose love for each other is frustrated by lack of communication is a wonderful tale to be told and here it?s done so well - the rest is just padding. It?s a strong narrative but McEwan-lite. Let?s hope he has something more substantial landing on our shores soon.

[Daniel del Real]

This was my first McEwan and I have to say it didn't disappoint me at all.
This nouvelle is an amazing piece of literature, the examination on two young and confused minds that get together to establish a new family.

Even where the structure is a let down, the prose remains a joy. McEwan’s choice of words demonstrates his particular talent at painting, with a few measured strokes, a whole scene. And when he gets into the mind of his characters he truly explores them to the point that we know that beyond the page their lives still go on.

I couldn't have said it better. McEwan really constructs this story by just a few measured strokes and finishes it going faster.

But On Chesil Beach does suffer by the time the end comes round. What had started as a slowly lapping wash of narrative becomes, in its closing pages, a tsunami of events flashing forward into the future, explaining the relationship.

On this point I disagree, I think the rush for a closedown on the story gives a meaning of lightness into Edward's life afer parting ways with Florence, always remembering the past as something solid and stable that could've grown up into something great, and his present flowing quick with an empty inside.

Lack of communication plays an important role here. Even when they both love each other, they cannot get together in what they want from life.
The story leaves you cold and thinking how communication is lost in many ways nowadays.

+

[titania7]

Lack of communication plays an important role here. Even when they both love each other, they cannot get together in what they want from life.
The story leaves you cold and thinking how communication is lost in many ways nowadays.

Daniel,
I haven't read the book but I enjoy hearing your impressions of it.

And what you say about communication is aptly expressed.
I think a failure to communicate effectively is probably one
of the things that causes so many marriages and relationships
to break apart. People are so hesitant to be absolutely honest
with one another, and sometimes I think they would rather
risk losing even a relationship that is essential to their
happiness rather than have to open up their heart and soul to another person.

~Titania

[lionel]

This nouvelle is an amazing piece of literature, the examination on two young and confused minds that get together to establish a new family.

I really don't get this, and I really don't get the enthusiasm for McEwan in general. His earlier stuff showed promise, even if he had come out of the UEA factory, but he's just gone downhill in creative terms in proportion as he's grown in popularity and attendant riches. I've no problelm with people being rich, but this guy's writing is now so poor. Chesil Beach is about what exactly? Sexual insecurity? Wow, here we have McEwan exploring a new facet of the security angle. Saturday started with a kind of 9/11 fear, followed through with lock-up-everything-or-we'll-attack-your-houses insecurity, and, and, I'm falling asleep. Ian McEwan, thank Christ, is not the saviour of English English literature. No one is, and we await that person after Brown's gone and this country is sick to death of the Tories. Try Scotland, the wonderful James Kelman, Ali Smith, even Michel Faber, but English literature is almost as played out as its politics. OK, there are exceptions, but come on, the USA does English literature way, way better than England. England is dead, there's nothing left.

Surely Central and South American writers can beat us to a pulp?

[Stewart]

On this point I disagree

On reflection I disagree with myself too. That it should go from slow narrative to a torrent of what happens next, it perfectly reflected 'the incident' in coming earlier and faster than expected, if you know what I mean.

[lionel]

Goddit. It just came to me: the guy's a scientist manqu?. I believe he learned all about ballooning for Enduring Love. How much time did he take investigating brain surgery for Saturday? Too old to become a scientist now, of course, but he can always pretend. Wanker.

Edited to keep with the thread: for what specific purpose did he illegally nick those pebbles from Chesil Beach?

[Daniel del Real]

I really don't get this, and I really don't get the enthusiasm for McEwan in general. His earlier stuff showed promise, even if he had come out of the UEA factory, but he's just gone downhill in creative terms in proportion as he's grown in popularity and attendant riches. I've no problelm with people being rich, but this guy's writing is now so poor. Chesil Beach is about what exactly? Sexual insecurity? Wow, here we have McEwan exploring a new facet of the security angle. Saturday started with a kind of 9/11 fear, followed through with lock-up-everything-or-we'll-attack-your-houses insecurity, and, and, I'm falling asleep. Ian McEwan, thank Christ, is not the saviour of English English literature. No one is, and we await that person after Brown's gone and this country is sick to death of the Tories. Try Scotland, the wonderful James Kelman, Ali Smith, even Michel Faber, but English literature is almost as played out as its politics. OK, there are exceptions, but come on, the USA does English literature way, way better than England. England is dead, there's nothing left.

Surely Central and South American writers can beat us to a pulp?

Wow, wow hold on. I'm not saying McEwan is the savior or the messiah of English literature. Quite frankly, and I said it before, it's the first of his books I've read and I think it is pretty good. I would need to read his books to check out if he's something else than a good book.

I'm not the one to decide if English literature is at a hard time right now, but I have to say, in my personal point of view, that writers from the States seem to be doing this better right now. It doesn't imply there's not good literature in England right now.

About Latin American literature, there are a few good writers now, but I think the golden generation is gone. If you would ask me there are a few good acclaimed writers from the old school that deserves a shot at the great prizes (Vargas Llosa, Fuentes, Delibes or Gelman) but the new generations is getting short to what they promised. Our best exponent, Roberto Bola?o, died really early, and plenty others have not taken the next step.

I guess literature all over the world is an existent being that regenerates every certain time.

[Liam]

I guess literature all over the world is an existent being that regenerates every certain time.

I would venture to suggest that English literature is the only exception to this otherwise true and sound law.

Every country's literature is tied to that country's national language (or, more rarely, multiple languages) and it can, after all, be observed that every now and then this so-called national literature takes a "breather."

English literature has enjoyed a unique and unprecedented tradition of uninterrupted genius ever since the seventh century, when Caedmon first "sang" his hymn.

What helps, of course, is the sheer scope and volume of English writing. Essentially, this includes ALL authors writing in English, be they American, Canadian, Australian, English, Irish or Welsh. At present there does not exist any other such linguistic "consortium" to rival the superior dominance of the Anglosphere, at least not in the field of literature. Collective Spanish literature comes close, but not quite.

So these little intermittent flares of inspiration you're talking about, occurring here and there throughout the English-speaking world, ultimately contribute to the same joint literary corpus.

I'm also not quite as pessimistic as Lionel is about the state of modern-day English writing. I think plenty of important work is being produced, even if you look exclusively at England (without the Celtic fringe).

I have only read three books by McEwan and found them rather pleasant. Atonement I will definitely reread when I have more time; while Saturday and Amsterdam were good but not great.

[Colette Jones]

I'm also not quite as pessimistic as Lionel is about the state of modern-day English writing. I think plenty of important work is being produced, even if you look exclusively at England (without the Celtic fringe).

I agree.

I have only read three books by McEwan and found them rather pleasant.

Agreed again, I like everything I've read of McEwan's: Atonement, Saturday, The Cement Garden, Enduring Love, On Chesil Beach, The Comfort of Strangers, and The Innocent.

I would rank On Chesil Beach the lowest, but of a very good lot.

[lionel]

I'm also not quite as pessimistic as Lionel is about the state of modern-day English writing. I think plenty of important work is being produced, even if you look exclusively at England (without the Celtic fringe).

Well, Liam, I think you know I sometimes exaggerate slightly to underline a point or just out of sheer cussedness, but I do have to battle strongly against the internal dragons of prejudice I have against stuff written in England.

I saw the film Atonement towards the end of a long-haul flight, and really enjoyed it, although I'd probably have enjoyed a Harry Potter, or, dare I say it, Lord of the Rings film after nearly 24 hours without sleep. I know it was overplayed to generate copy, but in the end I think it was the Lucilla Andrews No Time for Romance plagiarism affair that put me off reading Atonement, and in the end I just gave the thing away.

In a word, and although I know there have been many brilliant English writers, in general I find them pretty boring, and very parochial.

Today the silver lining is really black, or mixed race, I think, and Hari Kunzru, Helen Oyeyemi and Monica Ali, for example, show great potential. I'm still uncertain about Zadie Smith, but then the most promising newcomer of all - the wonderful Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - is over your side of the pond.

We, of course, have nothing like McSweeney's or The Believer - too much fun involved, for sure.

[lionel]

I have to say, in my personal point of view, that writers from the States seem to be doing this better right now.

Nail on the head, Daniel!

It doesn't imply there's not good literature in England right now.

See above.

About Latin American literature, there are a few good writers now, but I think the golden generation is gone.

The Boom is certainly long gone, but isn't Latin American literature reviving as a reaction against it, against Magic Realism? Isn't that what the Crack Movement was all about, but do you mean they've just not come up with the goods? I don't know, as I don't know anything like as much about current Latin American trends as I should.

And unfortunately, I've strayed off thread.

[Liam]

Well, Liam, I think you know I sometimes exaggerate slightly to underline a point or just out of sheer cussedness

I do know, Tony, because I'm often guilty of the same vile crime, as several people here at the WLF have had the graciousness to point out to me.

I've adopted Eric as my role model though: Stick to your opinions if you're lucky to have any, and screw the rest of 'em.

In a word, and although I know there have been many brilliant English writers, in general I find them pretty boring, and very parochial.

Please see my argument with Liehtzu on the Favorite Films thread (starting with post # 81). I think he dismissed most of contemporary Western filmmaking with the same general disinterest and ease as you just showed towards much of English fiction, but my point was (and I hope I wasn't too forceful in stressing it) that despite one's personal feelings of boredom or indifference, the work in question might still be a wonderfully-written, wonderfully-constructed piece of art, with a profound viewpoint and an interesting philosophy.

I, too, find much of recent British writing to be insufferably dull--but that's my personal response to it. At the same time I'm willing to explore the issues these writers bring or try to bring to the fore, my personal feelings notwithstanding.

I don't know. I babble. (Just woke up, it's 6:55 am here).

P.S. What have you been doing with yourself lately? It's good to see you back, old friend.

[lionel]

It's good to see you back, old friend.

What d'you mean 'old'?

[Liam]

What d'you mean 'old'?

Incidentally, I watched Federico Fellini's And the Ship Sails On last night. Midway through the film, the "narrator" approaches a young woman and asks her to guess his age. She says, "I think you're as old as my father. And my father will always be young for me."

From now on I will refer to you as "My friend of old..." Hopefully that will take care of all potential ambiguities.

[Liam]

This is from exactly a year ago:

Critics choose their most-loathed books

Helen Hawkins, Culture editor:

Atonement by Ian McEwan The only book that has ever moved me to hurl it across the room is McEwan?s 2001 bestseller. I was doing fine ? wading through the minutely detailed atmospherics, ducking the gobbets of Fine Writing that careened off each page, soldiering on through the epic nightmare of Dunkirk ? until about p330, where it was revealed that the whole damn effort I had put myself through had now to be reevaluated retrospectively, as the book was Not What It Seemed. Then, 50 pages later, came the final paragraphs, where I was informed I had to decide how to end the plot myself. My weary brain protested that McEwan had bottled it. He was effectively handing over a key responsibility of the novelist ? the ultimate fate of his imaginary creations ? to the unsuspecting reader. I thought John Fowles?s The French Lieutenant's Woman had rendered the double-ending gimmick redundant 30 years earlier.

I happen to disagree, but it's an interesting view of it...

[Daniel del Real]

The Boom is certainly long gone, but isn't Latin American literature reviving as a reaction against it, against Magic Realism? Isn't that what the Crack Movement was all about, but do you mean they've just not come up with the goods? I don't know, as I don't know anything like as much about current Latin American trends as I should.

And unfortunately, I've strayed off thread.

Well, Lionel, I believe the line of new writers as a reaction of magic realism is doing well, but unfortunately they haven't shown what everybody expected, although they are good. Maybe many people expected a new explotion like the one of the Boom, so they can be instananeously spread all over the world. It's not gonna happen again! but it doesn't mean they are not going to be known and admired one day.

Most of this new generation is between 30, early 40 years old, so most of them still do not complete their formation, showing us just sparkles of their talents and with most of them still waiting for a masterpiece that launches them into writers stardom.

On the other side we have the old idols (Fuentes, Vargas Llosa), some of them still part of the boom generation, excellent authors, but in my opinion venerated in excess (You should've seen all the events last year in Mexico about Fuentes eighty anniversary).

At the end I think there is a question of time and keep pushing on what they young writers are doing, so maybe in 10, 15 years we can see a great group consolidated. We have a sample with Bola?o right now.

[lionel]

You know, sometimes I think people take things I say way too seriously. Having said that, I'll get back to you (by email) much later tomorrow on that question after your PS, as we're off to Boston, UK. That's where a lot of you guys started from, of course.

Cheers back, Liam.

Tony

PS Pleased to see you're watching Fellini, although I don't know why that film is unfamiliar to me.

[lionel]

Well, Lionel, I believe the line of new writers as a reaction of magic realism is doing well, but unfortunately they haven't shown what everybody expected, although they are good. Maybe many people expected a new explotion like the one of the Boom, so they can be instananeously spread all over the world. It's not gonna happen again! but it doesn't mean they are not going to be known and admired one day.

Thanks for these comments, Daniel. The Boom was obviously something really special, and no, a similar thing won't happen again in a hurry, as you say.

Most of this new generation is between 30, early 40 years old, so most of them still do not complete their formation, showing us just sparkles of their talents and with most of them still waiting for a masterpiece that launches them into writers stardom.

Is age important? Very often, with many writers, their first book, whatever their age is, is often their masterpiece because they release their life thoughts to the public, and very often they don't know where to go next. Others, OK, just treat the first as a kind of trial, and mature all the time. It's a complex business.

But do you see any newbies who excite you? Any relatively fresh names you think will develop into something special?

(You should've seen all the events last year in Mexico about Fuentes eighty anniversary).

I have an idea of what you mean. I only visited Mexico once, when I stayed in M?rida, Yucat?n, for about ten days in the mid-eighties, via the hellhole that was Belize at the time, and nearly got beaten up by two guys (Guatemalans, I think) who automatically thought I was a supporter of Thatcher. But I can imagine masses of fireworks, which Mexicans seem to find any excuse to use. Or is that old-fashioned now?

Am I still keeping to the thread? What would McEwan think?

[lionel]

I would dearly love to discuss any way in which any admirers - or even non-admirers - of Ian McEwan's work can tell me that any of his works has in any way advanced English literature. I am not interested in how much a particular person enjoyed any of McEwan's works - that is pointless and largely mindless. I repeat: I'd just like to know how Ian McEwan has contributed anything at all to English literature. I see nothing. Is anything there?

[Liam]

I would dearly love to discuss any way in which any admirers - or even non-admirers - of Ian McEwan's work can tell me that any of his works has in any way advanced English literature. I am not interested in how much a particular person enjoyed any of McEwan's works - that is pointless and largely mindless. I repeat: I'd just like to know how Ian McEwan has contributed anything at all to English literature. I see nothing. Is anything there?

You will first have to define what you mean by "advancing English literature."

The "profile" that The New Yorker ran on him addressed some of the issues you're dying to discuss...

Life and Letters: The Background Hum: Reporting & Essays: The New Yorker

All in all, I agreed with their assessment of his general purpose as a novelist.