And it interests him less to have the world reinvented; he wants it explained.

Ian McEwan


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The smile of a deceiver is flawed, insufficient. But can we see these muscles resting there inert when there's so much local variation in faces, pads of fat, odd concavities, differences of bone structure? Especially difficult when the first and best unconscious move of a deliberate liar is to persuade himself he's sincere. And once he's sincere, all deception vanishes.

Ian McEwan


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Henry liked to put to himself when he was a schoolboy: what are the chances of this particular fish, from that shoal, off that continental shelf ending up in the pages of this copy of the Daily Mirror? Something just short of infinity to one. Similarly, the grains of sand on a beach, arranged just so. The random ordering of the world, the unimaginable odds against any particular condition, still please him. Even as a child, and especially after Aberfan, he never believed in fate or providence, or the future being made by someone in the sky. Instead, at every instant, a trillion trillion possible futures; the pickiness of pure chance and physical laws seemed like freedom from the scheming of a gloomy god.

Ian McEwan


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This is the pain-pleasure of having newly adult children; they're innocent and ruthless in forgetting their sweet old dependence.

Ian McEwan


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When there are no consequences, being wrong is simply a diversion.

Ian McEwan


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When anything can happen, everything matters.

Ian McEwan


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Could it ever be explained, how matter becomes conscious?

Ian McEwan


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He saw that no one owned anything really. It's all rented, or borrowed. Our possessions will outlast us, we'll desert them in the end.

Ian McEwan


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No emergency was ever dealt with effectively by democratic process.

Ian McEwan


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But of course, it had all been her – by her and about her, and now she was back in the world, not one she could make, but the one that had made her, and she felt herself shrinking under the early evening sky

Ian McEwan


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