Saturday (Unabridged) [Audio Download]

It was surprising to find so many 1- and 2-star reviews here at Amazon. "Saturday" has a lot going for it. Much has been made of the technical impressiveness of McEwan's prose; his meticulous research into multiple topics; the attention to detail in the stream-of-conciousness narration of the central character, whose constantly calculating approach to life seemed entirely fitting for a brain surgeon (sorry, "neurosurgeon").

I found the meditations on the state of society and current affairs of 2003 particularly satisfying. One of the best sections was the argument between Daisy and Henry about the rationale for the Iraq war, youthful moral absolutism on the one hand and sloppy pragmatic consequentialism on the other. (My own position on this issue has oscillated between the two over the last six years.) There were some gripping moments (I won't spoil things by going into detail) and, perhaps, some clever allegorical points being made - invasive brain surgery being contrasted with invasive military action, for example. And I'm pretty sure that learning how Henry thinks has, in a small way, changed how I think, for the better.

On the other hand, it was equally surprising to find serious critics absolutely bowled over by this novel; words like "dazzling" and "stunning" seem to crop up a lot in reviews. They all seem to ignore the novel's most obvious flaw: a family of uniformly high achievers will not only be not particularly likeable, but, when the achievements are *this* impressive, almost certain not to exist. Yes, there's probably an 18-year-old kid somewhere who is currently being feted by the British Blues scene as our next greatest guitarist - but you can be sure that his sister isn't our next greatest poet, his dad one of our greatest surgeons, his mum one of our greatest media lawyers, his grandfather one of our greatest current poets and his poor grandmother "only" a "county champion" swimmer. How could McEwan go to such lengths with the details only to get the big picture so absurdly wrong? Some characters who actually act like human beings in a real family (occasionally stopping achieving things to make each other laugh, or drive each other up the wall, perhaps) would give the reader something to relate to. (One wonders if the reviewers would have been so gushing if they had been unaware of the identity of the author.)

There's lots more to be said but you probably have better things to do with your time. So in summary:

It's a brussels sprout of a book. You feel you ought to consume it, because you know it's good for you and you see everyone else doing it; and while you might not enjoy it much at the time, you'll feel slightly better for it afterwards.

Why is Ian McEwan so successful? Is it because his rich understanding of literature and science create a vital lens on our times? Or is it because the literate classes can so easily identify with his firmly middle-class viewpoint (see every main character for the last ten years). Like Atonement, the main character (Perowne, a neurologist) has that mixture of vague musing about how the less fortunate live and barely disguised fear of Baxter, a maladjusted type, this time 'with Simian features'. Honestly, how much closer can you get to dehumanising the less fortunate? Obviously this elevates Perowne to the paragon of man, flexing his mind and his muscles in a squash game while Baxter spends his time lounging in Spearmint Rhino. This is every male, middle-class professional 's fantasy version of himself, with all base urges assigned to the 'lower class' character. Like Atonement, Saturday includes scenes of hard-to-swallow heroism from Perowne and his arty children (yeah right) when by that point I was on Baxter's side, hoping he'd set fire to their Oriental rug or something. Of course, McEwan chooses to bring him close to raping the daughter instead, just to underline that he's no better than an animal. But instead he reads the daughter's poetry, gets all emotional about it and doesn't do any damage. This must be one of the most laughable moments in the history of literature, and epitomises this writer's problem. Instead of keeping one foot in the plausible, McEwan uses the dramatic climax to champion the transforming power of literature. But since its effect is attributed to Baxter's neurological and emotional condition, McEwan is just subtly and smugly stating that the 'lower classes' are otherwise morons and no better than animals. There is no awareness of Baxter's cultural alienation from poetry, or his lack of opportunity to indulge in it like the Oxbridge daughter. The reduction of Baxter in this way is compounded by the fact that he's no more than a sounding-board for the Perowne character to muse on neurological conditions. I'll admit this leads to some finely researched writing, but does 10 obscure scientific terms per page add up to literature? Or is it just pandering those middle-class readers again, who are just too busy these days to read novels (unless it can be categorised under 'mental self-improvement' activities).
When are we going to see a writer emerge who can really speak for the millions of Londoners who don't live in Highgate and Notting Hill? In the meantime, this book's only good for a laugh at the myopic ivory tower types.

Saturday is a day in the life of Henry Perowne, a Fitzrovia Square dwelling neurosurgeon. The book follows an eventful day in his life, describing & detailing every thought he has about his surroundings, family, coworkers and generally his life. When a minor traffic accident brings unwelcome elements into his life, his diurnal evaluations will count for nothing as a series of coincidences threaten his very way of life.

For the first 30 pages I was absolutely captivated by this book, a simple description of Henry waking up in the middle of the night to a state of uncanny alertness and feeling a compulsion to walk to the window, only to see a burning jet making an emergency landing into Heathrow was simply magical.

The rest of the book follows suit well, but doesn't recapture the initial hypnosis. McEwan's writing style makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck sometimes. The characters are well fleshed out as often trivial events in Henry's life trigger a spiral into introspective asides detailing his past and his feelings towards the components of his existence. As a result you get to understand the inner workings of Henry's mind, what propels, feeds and most importantly, drives him. The book is set in 2003's London, on the day of the anti-Iraq-war protests and the vivid descriptions of his meanderings around Charlotte, Gower & University Street are true to life, a great touch to an already great book if you know the area.

It is after we have gained a very comprehensive grasp of who Henry is that he is thrown into turmoil and you read with baited breath waiting to see whether he will live upto your expectations of the character. Simply electric reading, I struggled to put this book down. If you are new to Ian McEwan this is as good a place to start as any, I am hooked and would recommend this book to anyone!!