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I finally finished reading Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach today. There's no reason why it should have taken me more than a week to read a novel that's only 201 pages long, and not very lengthy pages at that; but I read it in fits and starts, a few pages at a time over lunch or on breaks at work, rather than devouring the whole thing in a single sitting. In a way, I think I may have been afraid to read it in that fashion, because there are passages of such emotional intensity and beauty in this novel that to read them quickly, almost passively, would be to demean them. McEwan's words should be lingered over, savored, appreciated in the fullness of their poetic resonance.

The story is simple: Edward and Florence are newlyweds on their honeymoon in 1962, both virgins and both highly uneasy about their wedding night. He's full of passion and longing, but terrified that his performance might prove unsatisfactory; she's not simply fearful of physical contact, but absolutely revolted by the idea of sex, and tries to conceal her nausea from her new husband out of fear that he'll be dissatisfied with her. Inevitably, the collision of their anxieties results in a disaster, she flees their hotel to the beach to get away, and when he follows they express all the anger and resentment they've concealed or denied over the course of their relationship.

Over its five chapters, the novel shifts back and forth between the past and the present, elaborating on how Edward and Florence met, their family histories, and the political climate of the times. McEwan balances all these strands without ever becoming heavy-handed, mainly because he has no specific political ideology to espouse. Instead, the sections concerning politics serve to illustrate the naiveté of the youthful Edward and Florence-- the latter actually believes Stalin is a good person-- and the outmoded conservatism of their parents, and to reveal both as flawed approaches. The former lacks maturity and consideration; the latter lacks imagination and hope. And in a way, that same dichotomy describes the emotional landscape of the protagonists; Edward is all lustful intensity without consideration of his wife's anxieties, while Florence's revulsion at sexuality is a cultural relic that is still too much a part of her character to fully abandon, even when she makes a startlingly open-minded proposal to Edward in a desperate attempt to save their marriage.

Throughout, McEwan is extraordinarily adept at making his characters come alive as believable, flawed, yet still sympathetic beings; there's a seeming simplicity and directness to his prose that belies its sophistication, an ability to directly express his characters' motivations and complexities without straining to be "simple". His use of natural imagery is equally masterful; there's no overwrought symbolism here, only a realistic descriptive approach that allows the settings to breathe, and to enhance the story's atmosphere without overwhelming it.

The final chapter is moving and heartbreaking in ways I find almost impossible to describe. McEwan captures the difficulties of emotional attachment and the hurt people who love each other can inflict (intentionally or not, and in this instance both at the same time) with such precision that reading it is almost painful. It's the most emotionally powerful writing I've experienced in a long time, and I can't recommend On Chesil Beach highly enough.

EDITORIAL NOTE: While my movie and DVD reviews almost always use numerical ratings, that approach somehow seems wrong for a book review; I'm not sure exactly why, but it just does. So neither this nor any subsequent book reviews will include such a rating. Suffice it to say that if I did use a ratings scale, On Chesil Beach would receive the highest possible rating.