Like a Well-Oiled Machine

Amsterdam by Ian McEwan

There is something almost infuriating about how well Ian McEwan writes. In many ways, there was something very machine-like about reading Amsterdam because of how smoothly the prose and shifts in perspective worked so effortlessly. When reading most fiction, even good and great fiction, you often find yourself seeing passages that don’t work as well or the actual seams connecting plot points the author is trying to move through. But here, there is none of that, and McEwan, with arguably a more deft touch than he exhibited in Atonement, outlines the relationships of his characters so wonderfully that it is hard to see what happens until the very end where you feel chilled to the bone.

The novel opens at a cremation for a popular woman who died of a degenerative disease. Present are at least three former lovers and a husband whom they all mocked. Clive, a celebrated composer, and Vernon, the editor for the Judge, a British daily, meet and rekindle their friendship. Both have fond memories of the deceased, who really stands as the woman who brought these two men together. From that point on, the two men find themselves yearning for one another’s company until a series of events leads to the dissolution of their friendship, and ultimately, their dooms.

Some have criticized the book for its melodrama and overt ethical condemnations, but I see no problems with it whatsoever. One could criticize Dickens, Tolstoy, and Nabokov for the same reasons. The debates that McEwan presents are an integral part of the story, something that only adds texture to the lives of his characters.

This novel surely deserves the Booker Prize and your attention.

Some great quotes:

“A great man, Clive Linley. To air differences and remain friends, the essence of civilized existence, don’t you think?”

“He knew from long experience that a letter sent in fury merely put a weapon into the hands of your enemy. Poison, in preserved form, to be used against you long into the future.”