Trevor Smith
Ian McEwan
Ian
McEwan was born on 21 June in 1948 in
In 1976 his first collection of short stories, First Love, Last Rites
(1975), won the Somerset Maugham Award. A second volume of stories, In
Between the Sheets, appeared in 1978. These stories - claustrophobic tales
of childhood, deviant sexuality and disjointed family life - were remarkable
for their formal experimentation and controlled narrative voice. His first
novel, The Cement Garden (1978), is the story of four orphaned children
living alone after the death of both parents. To avoid being taken into care,
they bury their mother in cement in the basement and attempt to carry on as
normal a life as possible, and an incestuous relationship develops between the
two eldest children as they seek to emulate their parents roles. It was
followed by The Comfort of Strangers (1981), set in
His next novel, The Child in Time (1987), won the Whitbread Novel Award,
and marked a new confidence in McEwan's writing. The
story is centred on the devastating effect of the
loss of a child through abduction. The Innocent (1990) is a love story
set in post-war
Atonement (2001), shortlisted for the Booker
Prize for Fiction and the Whitbread Novel Award and winner of the WH Smith
Literary Award, begins in 1935 and tells the story of Briony,
a young girl and aspiring writer, and the consequences of the discovery she
makes about Robbie, a young man destined to play a part in the Dunkirk
evacuations.
In addition to his prose fiction, Ian McEwan has
written plays for television and film screenplays, including The Ploughman's
Lunch (1985), an adaptation of Timothy Mo's novel
Sour Sweet (1988) and an adaptation of his own novel, The Innocent
(1993). He also wrote the libretto to Michael Berkeley's music for the oratorio
Or Shall We Die? and
is the author of a children's book, The Daydreamer (1994).
Film adaptations of his own novels include First Love, Last Rites
(1997), The Cement Garden (1993) and The Comfort of Strangers
(1991), for which Harold Pinter wrote the screenplay.
Ian McEwan lives in
Children, Drama, Fiction, Libretto, Screenplay, Short stories
First Love, Last Rites
In Between the Sheets
The
The Comfort of Strangers
The Imitation Game (three plays for television: Jack Flea's
Birthday Celebration; Solid Geometry; The Imitation Game)
Or Shall We Die? (libretto for an
oratorio set to music by Michael Berkeley)
The Ploughman's Lunch (film script)
The Child in Time
Sour Sweet (film script based on the novel by Timothy Mo) Faber and Faber, 1988
The Innocent
Black Dogs
The Daydreamer
The Short Stories
Enduring Love
Atonement
On Modern British Fiction (contributor: 'Mother Tongue - A Memoir') Oxford University Press, 2002
Saturday
1976 Somerset Maugham Award First Love, Last Rites
1981 Booker Prize for Fiction (shortlist) The Comfort of Strangers
1987 Whitbread Novel Award The Child in Time
1993 Prix Fémina Etranger
(
1997 James Tait Black Memorial Prize (for fiction) (shortlist) Enduring Love
1998 Booker Prize for Fiction
1999 Shakespeare Prize (
2000
2001 Booker Prize for Fiction (shortlist) Atonement
2001 James Tait Black Memorial Prize (for fiction) (shortlist) Atonement
2001 Whitbread Novel Award (shortlist) Atonement
2002
2002 WH Smith Award for Fiction (shortlist) Atonement
2002 WH Smith Literary Award Atonement
2003 National Book Critics' Circle Fiction Award (
2005 Man Booker International Prize (shortlist)
Ian McEwan is one of the finest writers of his
generation, and amongst the most controversial. He has achieved unbroken
popular and critical success since, on graduating from Malcolm Bradbury’s
Creative Writing Programme, he won the Somerset Maugham Award for his collection
of short stories, First Love, Last Rites (1975). Nominated three times
for Britain’s most prestigious literary award, the Booker Prize for
Fiction, he finally secured the honour with Amsterdam
(1998), confirming his position with Graham Swift, Julian Barnes and Martin Amis, at the forefront of contemporary British writing.
Although primarily a novelist and short story writer, McEwan
has also written three television plays published as The Imitation Game
(1981), a children’s book, a libretto Or
Shall We Die? (1983), a film script The Ploughman’s Lunch
(1985), and a successful film adaptation of Timothy Mo’s
novel Sour Sweet (1988). Across these many forms, his writing
nonetheless retains a distinctive character, perhaps best summed up in Kiernan
Ryan’s phrase, ‘the art of unease’.
McEwan’s early pieces were notorious for their
dark themes and perverse, even gothic, material. Controversy surrounding the
extreme subject matter of the first four works, which are concerned with paedophilia, murder, incest and violence, was exacerbated
by their troubling narrative framework, the way in which conventional moral
perspectives are disrupted or overturned, the reader frequently drawn into
prurient involvement with the characters. McEwan’s
perpetrator-narrators draw us into complicity with their crimes, whilst his
victims seem strangely collusive in their own exploitation and destruction. The
three tales in First Love, Last Rites recount episodes of child sexual
abuse: an adolescent boy’s rape of his younger sister; a man’s
molestation and murder of his neighbour’s
nine-year-old daughter; and a schoolboy’s submission to his aunt’s
transvestite fantasies. In Between the Sheets (1978),
offers further exploration of sado-masochistic,
vicious and exploitative sexual relations, extending the range (in ‘Psychopolis’), into a troubling examination of the
moral contradictions within so-called ‘consenting’ relationships.
McEwan’s first novel, The Cement Garden
(1978), is the story of siblings who bury their mother in the cellar rather
than acknowledge her death, then slowly revert to a feral state, avoiding the
outside world until, in a powerful conclusion, the authorities simultaneously
discover the body, and the elder children locked in incestuous climax. McEwan evokes a disquieting sense of inevitability in the
unfolding of these events, generating an odd suspension of standard moral and
narrative expectations. In the final work of this period, the exquisite short
novel The Comfort of Strangers (1981), McEwan
also crafts an eerily convincing tale from bizarre materials. A haunting
account of the murder of an English couple during their holiday in
Although McEwan’s subsequent writing has moved
away from the more disquieting of these themes, he continues to explore the
impact on ordinary people of unusual or extreme situations, as they face
sudden, shocking violence, or slip into acute psychological states. At the same
time, his writing has begun to address broader themes, examining how social and
political issues determine our personal lives. In The Child in Time
(1987), which centres on the abduction of the
narrator’s own child, a further subplot explores the psyche of a
(fictitious) senior politician, and a repulsive Margaret Thatcher figure makes
a memorable appearance. The Innocent (1990), and Black Dogs
(1992), both set in Berlin, probe the impact of the Cold War, the former (set
at the outset of the division of Europe), representing McEwan’s
unique approach to the spy thriller genre; the latter following the story of a
man struggling to compile his memoirs as the Wall comes down. McEwan has also focussed
increasingly on issues of sexual politics, most prominently in the television
plays published as The Imitation Game, which specifically addresses the
position of women in contemporary society. This aspect of his work has
generated some disapproval: Adam Mars-Jones, for instance, teasingly described McEwan as ‘one of the few successful literary
examples of the New Man’. In fact, such comments ignore the consistency
of McEwan’s writing. In these texts, his
preoccupation with unexceptional protagonists wrenched from their conventional
sense of reality or self is reiterated, even magnified, as the claustrophobic
settings of the early pieces are extended into the familiar but dislocated
contexts of modern life.
Despite its success,
Atonement (2001), however, is an altogether more challenging and
ambitious work. Hugely acclaimed, this is writing on a new scale, recognisably McEwan in the
well-wrought prose and fine articulation of character, the cool precision of
moral nuance, the adept and surprising effects of plot, but also a revelation
in the new and powerful sense of history, of the pattern of individual lives
and actions within the sweep of great events – in this case, the 1939-45
War. The narrative voice itself is an astonishing achievement: we read the
words of an elderly novelist, in 1990, writing the perspective of her own
younger self in first 1935, then 1940. Her story hinges on a crucial error of
perception, which may have been an act of malice, with which she effectively
destroys the harmony of her childhood home. The atonement to which the title
refers becomes the goal of her life, and her text, as she struggles somehow to
make amends for the irrevocable damage she has caused. The dark, closing
ambiguities of the book call into question the very possibility of achieving
such grace, and express a troubled awareness of the complexities of
responsibility and agency – in writing as in life. Few British novelists
have matched the seriousness and sustained force of Atonement: it is the work
of a unique imaginative voice demanding our attention and respect.
© Dr Sean Matthews
For an in-depth critical review see Ian McEwan by Kiernan Ryan (Northcote House, 1994: Writers and their Work Series).
'I have contradictory fantasies and aspirations about my work. I like
precision and clarity in sentences, and I value the implied meaning, the
spring, in the space between them. Certain observed details I revel in and
consider ends in themselves. I prefer a work of fiction to be self-contained,
supported by its own internal struts and beams, resembling the world, but
somehow immune from it. I like stories, and I am always looking for the one
which I imagine to be irresistible.
Against all this, I value a documentary quality, and an engagement with a
society and its values; I like to think about the tension between the private
worlds of individuals and the public sphere by which they are contained.
Another polarity that fascinates me is of men and women, their mutual
dependency, fear and love, and the play of power between them.
Perhaps I can reconcile, or at least summarise, these
contradictory impulses in this way: the process of writing a novel is educative
in two senses; as the work unfolds, it teaches you its own rules, it tells how
it should be written; at the same time it is an act of discovery, in a harsh
world, of the precise extent of human worth.'