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Ian McEwan back to what he does best ... traditional fiction. But the book was interminable, its length and the staying power required to get through it only partially justified by his inimical brilliance. Just when you think you're nearing some sort of finale he leaps off on another digression from the main story that despite its engrossing nature often seems like an unapologetic harangue by the author on one or another of the subjects dear to his heart. Some of these in regard to authors and writing and whether or not a woman can become an international bestselling author unless she abandons home, hearth, husband and infant to beaver away in isolation are excellent fodder for further debate.