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bjr2022 's review for:
Sweet Tooth
by Ian McEwan
I would like to know Ian McEwan—to be the kind of friend who meets him for lunch. If I were, I’d say, “All right, Ian, give it up. Tell me straight. How do you know what it feels like to be a woman? How do you know the sensations, the thoughts women rarely say about being with men? Don’t lie. I promise I’ll keep it a secret.”
I think all good writers become their characters and hence, they are writing from an authentic place that is much bigger than who they are in day-to-day life. Plus, there is always research—asking a good friend for details. I’ve done both of these things. When I was writing mostly plays, I felt wonderful when I saw how easily male actors fit into the parts I wrote—how organic the feelings were, how the dialogue came easily. I think I write real men, and I know McEwan inhabits the Big Place and employs research to write real women—for goodness sake, he says as much in this book. But still …
This meandering but ultimately astonishing spy story is my seventh Ian McEwan book, the fifth with a fully complex protagonist or major character who is a woman, and his gut-level understanding is better than that in a slew of books by women. I guess the answer is simply that he is a much better writer than anybody who writes shallow or stereotypical people. But still …
This book invites writerly concerns, so I’ll note some more: With this story, more than the other McEwans I’ve read, I was fixated by how he not only moved time and plot forward via narrative alone, but in the process, he fleshed out relationships through time; relationships that were merely first meetings in a scene were then pushed into intimacy using narrative alone, and you feel and care about them as if you’ve read slow development through scenes. (I think the only other instance I’ve read this much narrative and had it do the work of scenes is John Williams’s amazing Stoner.) To my mind, through his body of work, McEwan offers a master class in a difficult, often impossible, use of narrative. And in this book, his repeating themes of lying, plus the delightfully subversive playing with the reader/writer relationship (balance of power—another theme) along with the art of turning life into fiction, plus subtle teasing of the very reader of this book were like musical movements within a cohesive symphony. For instance, talking about books and writing, the protagonist, a spy, talks to her asset, a writer who does not know he is an asset:
Well anyway, you are so much fun, Ian. Truly a “writer’s writer.” And since I’m a writer, I really do think I understand what you’re doing and how you’re doing it. But still …
I think all good writers become their characters and hence, they are writing from an authentic place that is much bigger than who they are in day-to-day life. Plus, there is always research—asking a good friend for details. I’ve done both of these things. When I was writing mostly plays, I felt wonderful when I saw how easily male actors fit into the parts I wrote—how organic the feelings were, how the dialogue came easily. I think I write real men, and I know McEwan inhabits the Big Place and employs research to write real women—for goodness sake, he says as much in this book. But still …
This meandering but ultimately astonishing spy story is my seventh Ian McEwan book, the fifth with a fully complex protagonist or major character who is a woman, and his gut-level understanding is better than that in a slew of books by women. I guess the answer is simply that he is a much better writer than anybody who writes shallow or stereotypical people. But still …
This book invites writerly concerns, so I’ll note some more: With this story, more than the other McEwans I’ve read, I was fixated by how he not only moved time and plot forward via narrative alone, but in the process, he fleshed out relationships through time; relationships that were merely first meetings in a scene were then pushed into intimacy using narrative alone, and you feel and care about them as if you’ve read slow development through scenes. (I think the only other instance I’ve read this much narrative and had it do the work of scenes is John Williams’s amazing Stoner.) To my mind, through his body of work, McEwan offers a master class in a difficult, often impossible, use of narrative. And in this book, his repeating themes of lying, plus the delightfully subversive playing with the reader/writer relationship (balance of power—another theme) along with the art of turning life into fiction, plus subtle teasing of the very reader of this book were like musical movements within a cohesive symphony. For instance, talking about books and writing, the protagonist, a spy, talks to her asset, a writer who does not know he is an asset:
I said I didn’t like tricks, I liked life as I knew it re-created on the page. He said it wasn’t possible to re-create life on the page without tricks. (218)(To get the full joke of this, you must read the book.)
Well anyway, you are so much fun, Ian. Truly a “writer’s writer.” And since I’m a writer, I really do think I understand what you’re doing and how you’re doing it. But still …