The novels Whistler and What We Can Know (McEwan)

 I absolutely loved the entire experience of reading Whistler by Ann Patchett. I read it slowly, savoring every page-ful, every episode, every inch of type. I also loved the relationships among characters. And who couldn't or wouldn't love Eddie Triplett? And I admired all of his imperfections, but they weren't many and weren't terrible, not to my mind, because I couldn't help but see him only through step-daughter Daphne's eyes. 

So, about Ian McEwan's latest novel, What We Can Know, published in the fall of 2025: The book is divided into two parts. I enjoyed the keen inventiveness supporting the world McEwan creates in the 22nd century in the first 200 pages of the novel. I was into it all the way. 

Then Part II reared its head. I am loathing it, and laughing to myself in spite of it, because I recognize  that the last time I was this angry at a book and its author was when I read Ian McEwan's novel Atonement!! 

Mind you, in the interim (since 2003 or so) I've read many of McEwan's books and admired them all. I read On Chesil Beach, Saturday, Amsterdam, The Children Act, Sweet Tooth and more, BUT, [and this should probably be considered a spoiler comment here, so stop reading now if you have plans to read What We Can Know], I have to ask, why oh why is McEwan so hung up on cursing a major character with bottomless, unredemptive, punishing guilt and then wax on and on about it? Part II forms the last 100 pages or so of What We Can Know. I would really appreciate being able to finish the book, but I can see that I have 60 more pages of dragging this character through the bogs of hell. 

So rather than drag fellow bloggers through hell, I will try to get a grip on myself and either stop reading or just finish it. 

And now I am very curious: Have you ever been incensed by a book and its author? It has happened very rarely to me. The only other time was when I read The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes by Janet Malcolm. In that book, really a very long essay, Malcolm was being deliberately provocative and she succeeded in provoking me. It actually was very well done, but I've never quite recovered, and I read it in the late 1990s.