The stunning new novel from the Booker Prize winning novelist. Saturday, February 15, 2003 -- Henry Perowne wakes before dawn to find himself already in motion, drawn to the window of his bedroom. He is a contented man -- a successful neurosurgeon, ...
the devoted husband of Rosalind, and proud father of two grown-up children. What troubles Perowne as he stands at his window is the state of the world -- the impending war against Iraq, and a general darkening and gathering pessimism since the attacks on New York and Washington eighteen months before. Later during this particular Saturday morning, Perowne makes his way to his weekly squash game with his anaesthetist, trying to avoid the hundreds of thousands of marchers filling the streets of London, protesting against the war. A minor accident in his car brings him into a confrontation with Baxter, a fidgety, aggressive, young man, on the edge of violence. To Perowne's professional eye, there appears to be something profoundly wrong with him. Towards the end of a day rich in incident Baxter appears at the Perowne home during a family reunion -- with extraordinary consequences.
I defenitely don't like McEwan. I've read The Atonement before and then I was told Saturday was his best book and I should give another chance. It's well written and descriptive but I think it's too slow to read.
There is a taste in the air, sweet and vaguely antiseptic, that reminds him of his teenage years in these streets, and of a general state of longing, a hunger for life to begin that from this distance seems like happiness.
But her life, all lives, seemed tenuous when he saw how quickly, with that ease, all the trappings, all the fine details of a lifetime could be packed and scattered, or junked. Objects became junk as soon as they were separated from their owner andBut her life, all lives, seemed tenuous when he saw how quickly, with that ease, all the trappings, all the fine details of a lifetime could be packed and scattered, or junked. Objects became junk as soon as they were separated from their owner and their pasts [...]. As the shelves and drawers emptied, and the boxes and bags filled, he saw that no one owned anything really. It's all rented, or borrowed. Our possessions will outlast us, we'll desert them in the end. ...Continua Nascondi