I finished Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love last night, which I found engrossing but excruciating.

I’m never sure what to think of his books. On the one hand, he’s a brilliant writer and his topics are always fascinating. On the other hand, he leaves me… cold. I wonder whether he’s married and if so, whether his wife spends all her time worrying that he’s analyzing her thoughts.

(Okay, I just checked, and yes, he is married. All the best to you, Mrs. McEwan. Good luck trying to have a decent fight while your husband’s cataloguing your emotional responses and plotting novels in his head.)

I’m off to read Carol Shields — or something else with some feminine warmth to it!

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