Today is the birthday of one of my favorite novelists.Ian McEwan, born in Aldershot, England, June 21st, 1948.
He needs no introduction, but I love the way that Zadie Smith described him, in The Believer magazine, [August, 2005]:
I have often thought Ian McEwan a writer as unlike me as it is possible to be. His prose is controlled, careful, and powerfully concise; he is eloquent on the subjects of sex and sexuality; he has a strong head for the narrative possibilities of science; his novels are no longer than is necessary; he would never write a sentence featuring this many semicolons. When I read him I am struck by metaphors I would never think to use, plots that don’t occur to me, ideas I have never had. I love to read him for these reasons and also because, like his millions of readers, I feel myself to be in safe hands. Picking up a book by McEwan is to know, at the very least, that what you read therein will be beautifully written, well-crafted, and not an embarrassment, either for you or for him. This is a really big deal. Bad books happen less frequently to McEwan than they do to the rest of us.
-- Zadie Smith –
I too, love to read him, for all of Zadie’s reasons.
Have a great Wednesday!
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