I'm not Ian McEwan's biggest fan but I quite enjoyed this. His recent approach to a novel seems to be to take a modish topic, dissect and desiccate it through forensic research, and then lay out his clever learnings in front of us, wrapped in some half-convincing narrative arc. Well, he does all that again here, but the redeeming feature is a strand of humour and a decent portrait of a man (as opposed to mankind) in a misanthropic, dysfunctional descent towards extinction. So the book succeeds for me not so much because of McEwan's exploration of global warming, rather for some apparent back-reading of the novels of Tom Sharpe. If he got critically stoned for nicking pebbles off Chesil Beach last time, this time the whole story is about plagiarism, so borrowing a bit of Wilt is presumably a piece of deliberate irony.