Enduring Love

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I've just finished reading Ian McEwan's Enduring Love. The critics' reactions printed on the back cover largely agree that the book is "a page-turner, with a plot so engrossing that it seems reckless to pick the book up in the evening if you plan to get any sleep that night". Sorry, Alain de Botton, but I have to disagree on two counts:

Firstly, I literally had to stop reading and close the book after each chapter to decide whether it was worth carrying on with. The narrative is self-indulgent and unashamedly elitist, and feels like little more than an excuse for McEwan to prove how clever he is. Secondly, despite all these delays, I still polished off the novel in an afternoon, so Goodness only knows how long it takes de Botton to get through a decent-sized tome.

Why did I stick with it? Well, now I don't feel so left out when people on my English course discuss it (most read it at A-level); I know I'm a fast reader and that I could get through it quite rapidly; and after playing a four-hour game of Age of Empires last night, I really couldn't be doing with staring at computer screens all day...

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