On Chesil Beach
This is a horror story about a honeymoon gone awry between a couple of innocent Brits, young Edward and younger Florence in 1962 on a hard pebbled beach under ever gray skies at Dorset, told as only Ian McEwen can, with a consistent ear for nuance and deft subtlety in symbolism that add up to a hauntingly horrible whisper rather than a sharp primal scream a la Stephen King.
On balance what makes the story work so well is that into every sentence could easily have been sewn a word or two, a meaningful gesture, a perspective, or even a tiny bit of sexual knowledge and common understanding that would have produced the longed-for opposite experience for these newlyweds. Instead, they are ultimately portrayed as psychologically sad, sexually stupid, ego-centric and dishonest. Ah, the irony! Set precisely in nature on a forlorn sunless beach and in time during the year that introduced “the Pill” and the resulting sexual revolution into Western cultural consciousness, this novel stands as a minor set piece of missed sexual adventure at the beginning of a decade that defined rock n roll, rebellion, and a rip-snorting if war-torn and drug-induced sensual good times.
Don’t judge the depth of this book by its length or cover. This attractive thin anorexic sliver of a book looks inviting enough, but it is terribly fat and horribly ugly inside.
Highly recommended, but definitely not bedtime reading unless you and your partner have a truly twisted sense of humor.
