The conversation had turned again to those moments, by now enriched by a private mythology, when they first set eyes on each other
Ian McEwanTag: love
De az élet- minden élet- jelentéktelennek tetszett annak fényében, hogy milyen gyorsan, milyen könnyedén összecsomagolható, szétszórható vagy kidobható egy egész élet minden cókmókja, minden apró részlete. Limlommá silányulnak a tárgyak, amint különválnak tulajdonosuktól és múltjuktól-
[...]
Miközben kiürültek a polcok, a fiókok, és teltek a dobozok meg a zacskók, Henry rájött, hogy igazából senki sem birtokol semmit. Mindent csak bérlünk vagy kölcsönveszünk. Ingóságaink túlélnek minket, mi hagyjuk el őket a legvégén.
I squeezed her hand and said nothing. I knew little about Keats or his poetry, but I thought it possible that in his hopeless situation he would not have wanted to write precisely because he loved her so much. Lately I'd had the idea that Clarissa's interest in these hypothetical letters had something to do with our own situation, and with her conviction that love that did not find its expression in a letter was not perfect. In the months after we'd met, and before we'd bought the apartment, she had written me some beauties, passionately abstract in the ways our love was different from and superior to any that had ever existed. Perhaps that's the essence of a love letter, to celebrate the unique. I had tried to match her, but all that sincerity would permit me were the facts, and they seemed miraculous enough to me: a beautiful woman loved and wanted to be loved by a large, clumsy, balding fellow who could hardly believe his luck.
Ian McEwanAt best he read popular science magazines like the Scientific American he had now, to keep himself up-to-date, in layman's terms, with physics generally. But even then his concentration was marred, for a lifetime's habit made him inconveniently watchful for his own name. He saw it as if in bold. It could leap out at him from an unread double page of small print, and sometimes he could sense it coming before the page turn.
Ian McEwanTag: humor science physics ego ian-mcewan
I turned the pages so fast. And I suppose I was, in my mindless way, looking for a something, version of myself, a heroine I could slip inside as one might a pair of favourite shoes.
Ian McEwanDaylight seemed then to be the physical manifestation of common sense.
Ian McEwanI was the basest of readers. All I wanted was my own world, and myself in it, given back to me in artful shapes and accessible form.
Ian McEwanWhat was it with men, that they found elementary logic so difficult?
Ian McEwanI said I didn’t like tricks, I liked life as I knew it recreated on the page. He said it wasn’t possible to recreate life on the page without tricks.
Ian McEwanThe novel is too capacious, inclusive, unruly, and personal for perfection. Too long, sometimes too much like life.
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