Amsterdam

I finished Ian McEwan's Amsterdam this weekend as part of my continuing journey to make sense of the Booker Prize, and have decidedly mixed feelings about the book. There were clear moments of brilliance, particularly when discussing the creative process of Clive Linley, a composer in the midst of writing his masterpiece. I thought the characters were reasonably well-drawn for such a short book, and even enjoyed most of the plot weaving the characters together. Bits of political intrigue, macho jealousies, journalistic ethics, questions about when to engage with the outside world and when to huddle in our cocoons—all deftly handled, with due credit to McEwan on these counts.

But the ending. How many times do I have to say that about a book? But the ending: too cute, too clever, too silly. Just not worthy of what came before. In such a short novel, with such deliberate plotting, McEwan needed to do better. Ignore the end, shove it aside, and the book is wonderful. That's an awfully strange way to think about a book, though, especially one that does not reach 200 pages. The flaw is not fatal; I still appreciate what was good, even excellent about Amsterdam. So I'll read more McEwan, and I imagine I'll find what I'm looking for.