As always, Ian McEwan, you are the sweetest saddest thing. Just ONCE I would like you to write me a story in which nothing tragic happens.
No, I lie. That would be like ginger snaps sans molasses, and the saccharinity would kill me. Oh my diabeetus.
So, aside from the fairly mass-market-paperback milquetoast of a title and the heaps of deeper meaning that I only caught glimpses of as they whizzed by, The Child In Time was a gem. McEwan is flawless. I could read him for hours and hours, not because his prose is so ornate (how does mama feel about ornate prose, kiddies? That’s right, she hates it. Now go mix her a mint julep), but because it’s so incredibly seamless that I hardly notice it’s there. The man is an artiste.
Stephen and Julie Lewis lose their only little slip of a daughter, Kate, to a child-snatcher. I can’t even…I’m not going to think about that at all, but needless to say it TEARS THEIR MARRIAGE APART! And Stephen’s life is blown to pieces and he sort of fumbles through things and maybe he pulls through in the end and everything’s ok, and maybe this is the sort of book that you cap off with a bottle of wine and some serious thoughts of suicide (I’m looking at you, John Steinbeck). I’ll never tell!
I’m kind of…I’ve been feeling a little verbally constipated lately. What else do I say about this book? I could summarize more plot, but you’re either going to read it or you’re not. It wasn’t earth-shattering by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a damn good read.