A review of “Saturday”

by Ian Mcewan

I don’t know why I’ve put off reading any of his books for so long… I know I was very tempted to pick up Amsterdam and even this one, Saturday a number of times… but never did.

Like I was afraid I was going to be allergic to it. Or maybe it was that Booker thing… Or maybe his picture had always frightened me (true, sort of… I hadn’t really thought of it until I wrote that just now—I suppose his jacket picture does scare me a bit… go figure).

But I’ve done it. And my face hasn’t swollen like a potato. Nor have my breathing passages been cut off. No hives. Nothing.

And damn, what a great writer. Saturday was an excellent read… stuck in this neurosurgeon’s head you feel slightly claustrophobic, and I couldn’t help but feel the urge to look forward with a sense of dread… just from reading the jacket you knew something bad was going to happen, and it seemed to loom just around the corner, and you were stuck in his head, wanting to scream out, “Hey! Man! Look out! Don’t… umm… listen, just go pick up your wife at the office and go out for dinner or something!” But you can’t, because it’s a book, and you’re not actually in anyone’s head, nor are you capable of warning them.

And Mr. McEwan keeps up the pace throughout the book, navigates through the tricky uneven cobblestones of the narrative he’s come up with without missing a beat… it’s a great, engaging read.