I was relieved to discover, through the Google, that Ian McEwan is only 68. He’s been a part of my consciousness for so long, that I thought he was much older. That had me worried. The idea of a year without a new book by this guy might be too much to bear.
McEwan is one of my favorite writers. Of his 17 works of fiction, I’ve read all but three (“First Love, Last Rites,” “In Between the Sheets” and “Black Dogs”). I have also read three screenplays he wrote early in his career that are fascinating and bizarre. At least one of these works was pulled from a scheduled air date at the last minute, as I understand it, because the censors didn’t know what the hell to make of them. I guess they though there must have been something immoral in the works if they couldn’t understand them.
Most of his works left me marveling at the craft or the story, usually both. I often reread sections, because where he takes us is surprising. Sometimes, truth be told, because I had no idea what point he was making until I worked through it a few times.