Read April 2003
McEwan's Booker Prize winner is frequently taut and chilling. McEwan includes some fireworks: perfectly capturing the cacaphony of an executive's secretarial briefing, evoking the lushness of the Lake District, and charting the ecstasy and agony of composition. There's just one problem with the book: its thrill lies in its final resolution, but the author gives (half of) this away with a revealing phrase on pg.53 and confirms it on pg. 154. Pg. 188 reveals no new surprises. (And while we're at it, was I the only person who thought there was a direct reference to Debt of Pleasure?)