Saturday

I listened to this book on CD on the way back from Michigan. I have to say, if I had been reading it myself, I doubt that I would have finished it. Ian McEwan definitely has a way with words, his writing is exquisite. But for the vast majority of the book, which covers one Saturday in the life of a neurosurgeon, I felt like he was being wordy for the sake of being wordy. Everything was a fifteen minute exercise in dragging out a simple thought or situation. The book's "climax" occurred on CD 7 (of 9) and the remaining two hours were just an extremely long and boring denouement. I know there are some people who like that kind of writing, but that's the difference between me and the literati.