"They were
young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived
in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible.
But it is never easy."
So Ian McEwan begins
his latest novel, a short but highly charged work of fewer than 180 pages. The
year is 1962 and the newlyweds are Edward and Florence, names that reek of an
old world the '60s would soon transform.
When the book opens
they are being served dinner in their hotel room on the Dorset coast of England
by two trussed-up local lads who seem as awkward with the occasion as they are.
In the distance the waves of Chesil Beach can be heard breaking, a sound of
"gentle thunder, then sudden hissing against the pebbles".
Initially, McEwan's
writing is restrained and formal, a quint- essentially British tone befitting
the time in which it is set. One thinks of old BBC radio plays and
"hears" the story being told. It would be easy to mistake this as
tame fare indeed but for a sly humour and confidence percolating beneath
McEwan's voice:
"This was not a
good moment in the history of English cuisine, but no one much minded at the
time except visitors from abroad. The formal meal began, as so many did then,
with a slice of melon decorated by a glazed cherry ... It would not have
crossed Edward's mind to have ordered a red."
McEwan's intent,
however, is not drawing room comedy. Ominous descriptive traces like the
"hissing against the pebbles" and far rawer feelings are pulsing
within a few pages. The internal mechanics of the book quickly reveal
themselves as we discover who Edward and Florence are (he an aspiring
historian, she a young violinist), diving into their thought patterns and
family memories, reliving the romance between them and returning to the events
of the wedding night as seen through the eyes of each.
Virtually everything
that happens in On Chesil Beach occurs during this one evening and the
tidal intensity, the back and forth between Edward and Florence, is palpable as
it leads us down, finally, to the beach itself and the book's climactic scene.
McEwan exposes the
rationalisations and self-deceptions we all succumb to in situations of great
emotional uncertainty, the shifts in perception that show what changeable and
unpredictable beings we can be to ourselves, let alone one another. In doing
so, the book takes us deeper into two people's lives, counter-pointing the
tensions of the present with the great backwash of their past and the surging
of a future neither can fully see.
As the extent of
Florence's fear of sex becomes clear - "her whole being was in revolt
against the prospect of entanglement and flesh ... sex with Edward could not be
the summation of her joy, but the price she must pay for it" - we are
clued into Edward's long-standing awareness of her repressive personality.
Florence's genuinely loving affection, along with her passion for playing the
violin, has allowed him to deceive himself of what must be "her richly
sexual nature" and what he mistakes for simple shyness. Florence, of
course, is at pains to make it seem this way. Edward, not entirely insensitive
to these tensions and resistances, tries to be understanding, to take their
wedding night slowly. By the time she is moaning in disgust at his touch he is
interpreting it as the sound of ecstasy.
It's hard to say more
without giving away the plot of this slender book. Suffice to say the emotions
and ideas are profound in what might seem like the narrowest of circumstances.
And though the focus remains overwhelmingly intimate - newlyweds in a hotel
bedroom, mutual concerns about when they will have sex and how it will go -
McEwan summons up the Cold War atmosphere with textures like the wireless
playing downstairs, from where Edward hears the word "Berlin" and to
where Florence wishes she could flee, "to pass the time in quiet
conversation with the matrons on their floral-patterned sofas while their men
leaned seriously into the news, into the gale of history".
McEwan has always
been a political writer, as demonstrated in works as varied as his film script
for The Ploughman's Lunch (1983), a critique of life in Thatcher's
Britain, or his last brilliant novel, Saturday (2005), an attempt to
grapple with the nature of violence and human connectedness in a post-September
11, 2001, world. His reflections in The Guardian on the events of September
11 still stand out among the best things written at the time. Whether penning
an elegy for a deceased author like Saul Bellow or speaking with deep
ambivalence about the Iraq War, he remains committed to the engaged notion of a
public intellectual.
And yet there's a
provocative, almost mathematical coolness to his writing that undercuts the
comforting status of a literary good guy.
His debut collection
of short stories, First Love, Last Rites (1975), opened with the tale of
a boy telling you, in a bemused tone, how he raped his sister. McEwan's ability
to evoke the psychotic pull of a murderer in The Comfort of Strangers
(1981) or a stalker's obsession in Enduring Love (1997) similarly
displayed his taste for evil and violence in ways that appeared irresistible,
almost mystical.
This interest in the
sexually aberrant, the bizarre and the psychologically unsettling led to McEwan
being nicknamed Ian Macabre early in his career. Over time McEwan's books have
become less overtly strange (one of his most acclaimed short stories, Solid
Geometry, deals with a man who discovers how to fold his wife up like a
piece of paper and make her disappear) and more everyday in their intensities.
And yet the same neo-gothic traits of lives lived in secret and looming darkness
infect all his works with threat and fear.
When McEwan won the
Booker Prize in 1998 for Amsterdam it was largely seen as a lightweight
work in his career, a tightly plotted entertainment. On Chesil Beach is
similarly short, but far more serious, harking back to the compressed nature of
his early and most haunting short stories, as well as McEwan's long-running
interest in the random and banal ways ordinary lives can be shattered.
It is proof that no
life is completely private or shut off from the world, that we can be victims
of ourselves and, if we're unlucky, our historical moment, too.
- Mark Mordue
* First published in Sydney Morning Herald Spectrum Books, April 6 2007