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Saturday: A novel ハードカバー – 2005/3/22
英語版
Ian McEwan
(著)
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購入オプションとあわせ買い
From the pen of a master — the #1 bestselling, Booker Prize–winning author of Atonement — comes an astonishing novel that captures the fine balance of happiness and the unforeseen threats that can destroy it. A brilliant, thrilling page-turner that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.
Saturday is a masterful novel set within a single day in February 2003. Henry Perowne is a contented man — a successful neurosurgeon, happily married to a newspaper lawyer, and enjoying good relations with his children. Henry wakes to the comfort of his large home in central London on this, his day off. He is as at ease here as he is in the operating room. Outside the hospital, the world is not so easy or predictable. There is an impending war against Iraq, and a general darkening and gathering pessimism since the New York and Washington attacks two years before.
On this particular Saturday morning, Perowne’s day moves through the ordinary to the extraordinary. After an unusual sighting in the early morning sky, he makes his way to his regular squash game with his anaesthetist, trying to avoid the hundreds of thousands of marchers filling the streets of London, protesting against the war. A minor accident in his car brings him into a confrontation with a small-time thug. To Perowne’s professional eye, something appears to be profoundly wrong with this young man, who in turn believes the surgeon has humiliated him — with savage consequences that will lead Henry Perowne to deploy all his skills to keep his family alive.
Saturday is a masterful novel set within a single day in February 2003. Henry Perowne is a contented man — a successful neurosurgeon, happily married to a newspaper lawyer, and enjoying good relations with his children. Henry wakes to the comfort of his large home in central London on this, his day off. He is as at ease here as he is in the operating room. Outside the hospital, the world is not so easy or predictable. There is an impending war against Iraq, and a general darkening and gathering pessimism since the New York and Washington attacks two years before.
On this particular Saturday morning, Perowne’s day moves through the ordinary to the extraordinary. After an unusual sighting in the early morning sky, he makes his way to his regular squash game with his anaesthetist, trying to avoid the hundreds of thousands of marchers filling the streets of London, protesting against the war. A minor accident in his car brings him into a confrontation with a small-time thug. To Perowne’s professional eye, something appears to be profoundly wrong with this young man, who in turn believes the surgeon has humiliated him — with savage consequences that will lead Henry Perowne to deploy all his skills to keep his family alive.
- 本の長さ304ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Nan A. Talese
- 発売日2005/3/22
- 寸法16.81 x 2.82 x 24.16 cm
- ISBN-100385511809
- ISBN-13978-0385511803
商品の説明
商品説明
No.1ベストセラーを輩出し、『アムステルダム』でブッカー賞を受賞した巨匠作家が送る、幸福とそれを脅かす見えないものが紙一重であることを描いた驚くべき新作。読み出したらやめられない優れたスリリングな小説は、読者を夢中にするだろう。
『Saturday』は2003年2月のある日を舞台とした巧みな小説だ。ヘンリー・ペロウンは人生に満足している男だ。神経外科医として成功し、新聞社の弁護士と幸せな結婚生活を送り、子どもたちともいい関係にある。この休みの日、ヘンリーはロンドン中心の大きな家で、心地よく目覚める。彼は自宅でも手術室でも、同様にリラックスしている。病院の外の世界では、予測のつかないことも難しいこともある。対イラク戦争が差し迫っているし、2年前のニューヨークとワシントンDCへの攻撃以来、ペシミズムが暗くふくれあがってきている。
他ならぬこの土曜の朝、ペロウンの一日は普通から異常へと様相を変えていく。早朝の空に異常なものを見た後、同僚の麻酔医とスカッシュをプレイするために家を出ると、何千人もの戦争反対のデモ参加者でいっぱいのロンドンの通りを避けようとする。ところが車のちょっとした事故が原因で、チンピラに直面することになる。医者であるペロウンの目に、この若い男はどこかすごく様子がおかしいように見えるが、男の方は外科医に恥をかかされたと思い込んでいる。これがもとで、ペロウンは全力を尽くして家族を守る事態に陥っていく。
『Saturday』は2003年2月のある日を舞台とした巧みな小説だ。ヘンリー・ペロウンは人生に満足している男だ。神経外科医として成功し、新聞社の弁護士と幸せな結婚生活を送り、子どもたちともいい関係にある。この休みの日、ヘンリーはロンドン中心の大きな家で、心地よく目覚める。彼は自宅でも手術室でも、同様にリラックスしている。病院の外の世界では、予測のつかないことも難しいこともある。対イラク戦争が差し迫っているし、2年前のニューヨークとワシントンDCへの攻撃以来、ペシミズムが暗くふくれあがってきている。
他ならぬこの土曜の朝、ペロウンの一日は普通から異常へと様相を変えていく。早朝の空に異常なものを見た後、同僚の麻酔医とスカッシュをプレイするために家を出ると、何千人もの戦争反対のデモ参加者でいっぱいのロンドンの通りを避けようとする。ところが車のちょっとした事故が原因で、チンピラに直面することになる。医者であるペロウンの目に、この若い男はどこかすごく様子がおかしいように見えるが、男の方は外科医に恥をかかされたと思い込んでいる。これがもとで、ペロウンは全力を尽くして家族を守る事態に陥っていく。
レビュー
Praise for Ian McEwan's Atonement:
“A beautiful and majestic fictional panorama.” —John Updike, The New Yorker
“Flat-out brilliant . . . Lush, detailed, vibrantly colored and intense.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“A tour de force . . . Every bit as affecting as it is gripping.” –Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
“McEwan is one of the most gifted literary storytellers alive. . . . [Atonement] implants in the memory a living, flaming presence.” —James Wood, The New Republic
“A beautiful and majestic fictional panorama.” —John Updike, The New Yorker
“Flat-out brilliant . . . Lush, detailed, vibrantly colored and intense.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“A tour de force . . . Every bit as affecting as it is gripping.” –Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
“McEwan is one of the most gifted literary storytellers alive. . . . [Atonement] implants in the memory a living, flaming presence.” —James Wood, The New Republic
抜粋
One
Some hours before dawn Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, wakes to find himself already in motion, pushing back the covers from a sitting position, and then rising to his feet. It’s not clear to him when exactly he became conscious, nor does it seem relevant. He’s never done such a thing before, but he isn’t alarmed or even faintly surprised, for the movement is easy, and pleasurable in his limbs, and his back and legs feel unusually strong. He stands there, naked by the bed – he always sleeps naked – feeling his full height, aware of his wife’s patient breathing and of the wintry bedroom air on his skin. That too is a pleasurable sensation. His bedside clock shows three forty. He has no idea what he’s doing out of bed: he has no need to relieve himself, nor is he disturbed by a dream or some element of the day before, or even by the state of the world. It’s as if, standing there in the darkness, he’s materialised out of nothing, fully formed, unencumbered. He doesn’t feel tired, despite the hour or his recent labours, nor is his conscience troubled by any recent case. In fact, he’s alert and empty-headed and inexplicably elated. With no decision made, no motivation at all, he begins to move towards the nearest of the three bedroom windows and experiences such ease and lightness in his tread that he suspects at once he’s dreaming or sleepwalking. If it is the case, he’ll be disappointed. Dreams don’t interest him; that this should be real is a richer possibility. And he’s entirely himself, he is certain of it, and he knows that sleep is behind him: to know the difference between it and waking, to know the boundaries, is the essence of sanity.
The bedroom is large and uncluttered. As he glides across it with almost comic facility, the prospect of the experience ending saddens him briefly, then the thought is gone. He is by the centre window, pulling back the tall folding wooden shutters with care so as not to wake Rosalind. In this he’s selfish as well as solicitous. He doesn’t wish to be asked what he’s about – what answer could he give, and why relinquish this moment in the attempt? He opens the second shutter, letting it concertina into the casement, and quietly raises the sash window. It is many feet taller than him, but it slides easily upwards, hoisted by its concealed lead counterweight. His skin tightens as the February air pours in around him, but he isn’t troubled by the cold. From the second floor he faces the night, the city in its icy white light, the skeletal trees in the square, and thirty feet below, the black arrowhead railings like a row of spears. There’s a degree or two of frost and the air is clear. The streetlamp glare hasn’t quite obliterated all the stars; above the Regency façade on the other side of the square hang remnants of constellations in the southern sky. That particular façade is a reconstruction, a pastiche – wartime Fitzrovia took some hits from the Luftwaffe – and right behind is the Post Office Tower, municipal and seedy by day, but at night, half-concealed and decently illuminated, a valiant memorial to more optimistic days.
And now, what days are these? Baffled and fearful, he mostly thinks when he takes time from his weekly round to consider. But he doesn’t feel that now. He leans forwards, pressing his weight onto his palms against the sill, exulting in the emptiness and clarity of the scene. His vision – always good – seems to have sharpened. He sees the paving stone mica glistening in the pedestrianised square, pigeon excrement hardened by distance and cold into something almost beautiful, like a scattering of snow. He likes the symmetry of black cast-iron posts and their even darker shadows, and the lattice of cobbled gutters. The overfull litter baskets suggest abundance rather than squalor; the vacant benches set around the circular gardens look benignly expectant of their daily traffic – cheerful lunchtime office crowds, the solemn, studious boys from the Indian hostel, lovers in quiet raptures or crisis, the crepuscular drug dealers, the ruined old lady with her wild, haunting calls. Go away! she’ll shout for hours at a time, and squawk harshly, sounding like some marsh bird or zoo creature.
Standing here, as immune to the cold as a marble statue, gazing towards Charlotte Street, towards a foreshortened jumble of façades, scaffolding and pitched roofs, Henry thinks the city is a success, a brilliant invention, a biological masterpiece – millions teeming around the accumulated and layered achievements of the centuries, as though around a coral reef, sleeping, working, entertaining themselves, harmonious for the most part, nearly everyone wanting it to work. And the Perownes’ own corner, a triumph of congruent proportion; the perfect square laid out by Robert Adam enclosing a perfect circle of garden – an eighteenth-century dream bathed and embraced by modernity, by street light from above, and from below by fibre-optic cables, and cool fresh water coursing down pipes, and sewage borne away in an instant of forgetting.
An habitual observer of his own moods, he wonders about this sustained, distorting euphoria. Perhaps down at the molecular level there’s been a chemical accident while he slept – something like a spilled tray of drinks, prompting dopamine-like receptors to initiate a kindly cascade of intracellular events; or it’s the prospect of a Saturday, or the paradoxical consequence of extreme tiredness. It’s true, he finished the week in a state of unusual depletion. He came home to an empty house, and lay in the bath with a book, content to be talking to no one. It was his literate, too literate daughter Daisy who sent the biography of Darwin which in turn has something to do with a Conrad novel she wants him to read and which he has yet to start – seafaring, however morally fraught, doesn’t much interest him. For some years now she’s been addressing what she believes is his astounding ignorance, guiding his literary education, scolding him for poor taste and insensitivity. She has a point – straight from school to medical school to the slavish hours of a junior doctor, then the total absorption of neurosurgery training spliced with committed fatherhood – for fifteen years he barely touched a non-medical book at all. On the other hand, he thinks he’s seen enough death, fear, courage and suffering to supply half a dozen literatures. Still, he submits to her reading lists – they’re his means of remaining in touch as she grows away from her family into unknowable womanhood in a suburb of Paris; tonight she’ll be home for the first time in six months – another cause for euphoria.
Some hours before dawn Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, wakes to find himself already in motion, pushing back the covers from a sitting position, and then rising to his feet. It’s not clear to him when exactly he became conscious, nor does it seem relevant. He’s never done such a thing before, but he isn’t alarmed or even faintly surprised, for the movement is easy, and pleasurable in his limbs, and his back and legs feel unusually strong. He stands there, naked by the bed – he always sleeps naked – feeling his full height, aware of his wife’s patient breathing and of the wintry bedroom air on his skin. That too is a pleasurable sensation. His bedside clock shows three forty. He has no idea what he’s doing out of bed: he has no need to relieve himself, nor is he disturbed by a dream or some element of the day before, or even by the state of the world. It’s as if, standing there in the darkness, he’s materialised out of nothing, fully formed, unencumbered. He doesn’t feel tired, despite the hour or his recent labours, nor is his conscience troubled by any recent case. In fact, he’s alert and empty-headed and inexplicably elated. With no decision made, no motivation at all, he begins to move towards the nearest of the three bedroom windows and experiences such ease and lightness in his tread that he suspects at once he’s dreaming or sleepwalking. If it is the case, he’ll be disappointed. Dreams don’t interest him; that this should be real is a richer possibility. And he’s entirely himself, he is certain of it, and he knows that sleep is behind him: to know the difference between it and waking, to know the boundaries, is the essence of sanity.
The bedroom is large and uncluttered. As he glides across it with almost comic facility, the prospect of the experience ending saddens him briefly, then the thought is gone. He is by the centre window, pulling back the tall folding wooden shutters with care so as not to wake Rosalind. In this he’s selfish as well as solicitous. He doesn’t wish to be asked what he’s about – what answer could he give, and why relinquish this moment in the attempt? He opens the second shutter, letting it concertina into the casement, and quietly raises the sash window. It is many feet taller than him, but it slides easily upwards, hoisted by its concealed lead counterweight. His skin tightens as the February air pours in around him, but he isn’t troubled by the cold. From the second floor he faces the night, the city in its icy white light, the skeletal trees in the square, and thirty feet below, the black arrowhead railings like a row of spears. There’s a degree or two of frost and the air is clear. The streetlamp glare hasn’t quite obliterated all the stars; above the Regency façade on the other side of the square hang remnants of constellations in the southern sky. That particular façade is a reconstruction, a pastiche – wartime Fitzrovia took some hits from the Luftwaffe – and right behind is the Post Office Tower, municipal and seedy by day, but at night, half-concealed and decently illuminated, a valiant memorial to more optimistic days.
And now, what days are these? Baffled and fearful, he mostly thinks when he takes time from his weekly round to consider. But he doesn’t feel that now. He leans forwards, pressing his weight onto his palms against the sill, exulting in the emptiness and clarity of the scene. His vision – always good – seems to have sharpened. He sees the paving stone mica glistening in the pedestrianised square, pigeon excrement hardened by distance and cold into something almost beautiful, like a scattering of snow. He likes the symmetry of black cast-iron posts and their even darker shadows, and the lattice of cobbled gutters. The overfull litter baskets suggest abundance rather than squalor; the vacant benches set around the circular gardens look benignly expectant of their daily traffic – cheerful lunchtime office crowds, the solemn, studious boys from the Indian hostel, lovers in quiet raptures or crisis, the crepuscular drug dealers, the ruined old lady with her wild, haunting calls. Go away! she’ll shout for hours at a time, and squawk harshly, sounding like some marsh bird or zoo creature.
Standing here, as immune to the cold as a marble statue, gazing towards Charlotte Street, towards a foreshortened jumble of façades, scaffolding and pitched roofs, Henry thinks the city is a success, a brilliant invention, a biological masterpiece – millions teeming around the accumulated and layered achievements of the centuries, as though around a coral reef, sleeping, working, entertaining themselves, harmonious for the most part, nearly everyone wanting it to work. And the Perownes’ own corner, a triumph of congruent proportion; the perfect square laid out by Robert Adam enclosing a perfect circle of garden – an eighteenth-century dream bathed and embraced by modernity, by street light from above, and from below by fibre-optic cables, and cool fresh water coursing down pipes, and sewage borne away in an instant of forgetting.
An habitual observer of his own moods, he wonders about this sustained, distorting euphoria. Perhaps down at the molecular level there’s been a chemical accident while he slept – something like a spilled tray of drinks, prompting dopamine-like receptors to initiate a kindly cascade of intracellular events; or it’s the prospect of a Saturday, or the paradoxical consequence of extreme tiredness. It’s true, he finished the week in a state of unusual depletion. He came home to an empty house, and lay in the bath with a book, content to be talking to no one. It was his literate, too literate daughter Daisy who sent the biography of Darwin which in turn has something to do with a Conrad novel she wants him to read and which he has yet to start – seafaring, however morally fraught, doesn’t much interest him. For some years now she’s been addressing what she believes is his astounding ignorance, guiding his literary education, scolding him for poor taste and insensitivity. She has a point – straight from school to medical school to the slavish hours of a junior doctor, then the total absorption of neurosurgery training spliced with committed fatherhood – for fifteen years he barely touched a non-medical book at all. On the other hand, he thinks he’s seen enough death, fear, courage and suffering to supply half a dozen literatures. Still, he submits to her reading lists – they’re his means of remaining in touch as she grows away from her family into unknowable womanhood in a suburb of Paris; tonight she’ll be home for the first time in six months – another cause for euphoria.
著者について
Ian McEwan is the author of nine novels, including Amsterdam, for which he won the Booker Prize in 1998, and of Atonement, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, and the WHSmith Literary Award.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Nan A. Talese (2005/3/22)
- 発売日 : 2005/3/22
- 言語 : 英語
- ハードカバー : 304ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0385511809
- ISBN-13 : 978-0385511803
- 寸法 : 16.81 x 2.82 x 24.16 cm
- カスタマーレビュー:
著者について
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トップレビュー
上位レビュー、対象国: 日本
レビューのフィルタリング中に問題が発生しました。後でもう一度試してください。
2005年5月23日に日本でレビュー済み
Saturday brilliantly depicts life in a post 9/11 environment and successfully portrays a world of divergent but understandable differences. This novel’s varied attributes places it in the line of great stories like DA VINCI CODE, DISCIPLES OF FORTUNE, THE TRIUMPH OF THE SUN, NEVER LET ME GO. They have at their core mystery, love, happiness, hope, sufferings and uncertainty.
2017年8月16日に日本でレビュー済み
脳神経外科医ヘンリーの、土曜日の早朝から翌日の早朝にかけての1日を小説にしてくれました。構成はMrs. Dolowayみたいで、一日の時間の流れをヘンリーの心の動きで追っています。早朝から飛行機の緊急着陸の瞬間を窓から見たり、気難しい義父の訪問と米国から帰国する娘の帰宅を夜に控えていたり、サスペンス的な緊張感が漂っています。精神的に休まらないヘンリーですね。そしてバクスター。どう読めば良いのか、全体的にマキューアンさんの小説はハイブローを読者に想定して、ハイブロー読者の世界を扱っています。バクスターはエイリアンみたいに突然登場しますよね。扱い方は難しいし、ヘンリーには無理な相手でした。庶民に同情的な感覚はないですね。社会的な階級の壁が強い印象で残りました。小ぶりな作品で興味深いです。
2008年3月1日に日本でレビュー済み
主人公のヘンリーは40代後半の成功した神経外科医だ。愛する妻は弁護士で、二人の子供は芸術的才能に恵まれており、娘は詩人で息子はギタリストとして成功しており、社会的にも私生活においても実に恵まれた生活を過ごしている。
そんな彼がある土曜日の早朝に目が覚めて、エンジンから火を噴いた飛行機がロンドンの上空を飛ぶの目撃するところから物語は始まり、その土曜日の一日の出来事が描かれる。たった一日ではあるが、その中で妻との出会いまで遡る夫婦の歴史、子供や義父との関係、痴呆になった実母と過ごす時間と、ヘンリーの心情がきめ細かく描かれる。そして、終盤ではヘンリーが日中に起こした交通事故を契機に急速なクライマックスを迎えることになる。
本書のテーマは「不安定」ではないだろうか。ヘンリーは現在の生活に満足しているにも拘らず、早朝に目覚めた時から漠然とした居心地の悪さを感じている。それは初老にさしかかろうとしている自分の年齢による部分もあるが、成長して離れて行く子供や、老いていく親達と関わりの中で現在が満ち足りた状況が決して安定的なものではなく、今まさに移ろいつつあることを感じているからだと思う。その不安定さが端的に現れたのが終盤のクライマックスだと思う。
そんな彼がある土曜日の早朝に目が覚めて、エンジンから火を噴いた飛行機がロンドンの上空を飛ぶの目撃するところから物語は始まり、その土曜日の一日の出来事が描かれる。たった一日ではあるが、その中で妻との出会いまで遡る夫婦の歴史、子供や義父との関係、痴呆になった実母と過ごす時間と、ヘンリーの心情がきめ細かく描かれる。そして、終盤ではヘンリーが日中に起こした交通事故を契機に急速なクライマックスを迎えることになる。
本書のテーマは「不安定」ではないだろうか。ヘンリーは現在の生活に満足しているにも拘らず、早朝に目覚めた時から漠然とした居心地の悪さを感じている。それは初老にさしかかろうとしている自分の年齢による部分もあるが、成長して離れて行く子供や、老いていく親達と関わりの中で現在が満ち足りた状況が決して安定的なものではなく、今まさに移ろいつつあることを感じているからだと思う。その不安定さが端的に現れたのが終盤のクライマックスだと思う。
2007年8月12日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
相変わらず繊細な情緒描写と深い思索を展開する緊張感みなぎる筆力は脱帽ものです。脳神経外科に関する疾患病理や手術室の日常的雰囲気や患者とのやり取りなど実際的な臨床場面もかなりリアル。同僚とのスカッシュは余分だけどその土曜日の予定に入ってたんだから仕方ないか。
妻はメディア企業付き弁護士というエグゼで未だに夫と濃密に愛し合え、長女、長男たちも多少の問題はあるが立派に成長してる愛すべき若者たちです。
でも、そんな幸せな上中流家庭の日常にはちょっと興味湧かないかも。
家族が侵入者の脅威に立ち向かう後半はスリリングですが単に美しき筆力の為せる技かも。McEwanともなると期待が大きいだけに少し腰砕けといったところでしょうか。
個人的には『The Innocent』の主人公が「ゾーリンゲン、ゾーリンゲン、ゾーリンゲン・・・」とつぶやきながら遺体を切断するシーンが、今でもMcEwan作品の中では、逼迫され歪められた精神状態の描写の最高到達点だと思ってます。20年近くたったあとでも「ゾーリンゲン」が脳裏にこびり着いています。本作ではそのような鬼気迫るような描写はあったでしょうか。やはりこれはキャラクター設定の甘い、技術系の作品だと思います。9/11後の世情の不安が個人の精神状態の歪みに変容されるさまをMcEwanなら描けると期待してたのです。
妻はメディア企業付き弁護士というエグゼで未だに夫と濃密に愛し合え、長女、長男たちも多少の問題はあるが立派に成長してる愛すべき若者たちです。
でも、そんな幸せな上中流家庭の日常にはちょっと興味湧かないかも。
家族が侵入者の脅威に立ち向かう後半はスリリングですが単に美しき筆力の為せる技かも。McEwanともなると期待が大きいだけに少し腰砕けといったところでしょうか。
個人的には『The Innocent』の主人公が「ゾーリンゲン、ゾーリンゲン、ゾーリンゲン・・・」とつぶやきながら遺体を切断するシーンが、今でもMcEwan作品の中では、逼迫され歪められた精神状態の描写の最高到達点だと思ってます。20年近くたったあとでも「ゾーリンゲン」が脳裏にこびり着いています。本作ではそのような鬼気迫るような描写はあったでしょうか。やはりこれはキャラクター設定の甘い、技術系の作品だと思います。9/11後の世情の不安が個人の精神状態の歪みに変容されるさまをMcEwanなら描けると期待してたのです。
2006年9月22日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
相変わらず話運びのテンポがいいし、『贖罪』(Atonement)にはなかったユーモラスなところも散見されて、ぐいぐい読ませるのだけれども、マキューアンとしては平均点の出来ではないか。(物語展開にどことなく既視感があると思ったら、ドラマ『ER』にこんな感じのエピソードがなかったっけ? しかも『ER』のほうが、ぐっと胸に迫る描き方ができていたのでは?) マキューアンには、『愛の続き』(Enduring Love)みたいな本をまた書いてほしいものです。
他の国からのトップレビュー
filo2far
5つ星のうち5.0
One of his best for me!
2024年1月7日に英国でレビュー済みAmazonで購入
It waa some time ago that I read this book, but I can remember being unable to put it down. It waas superb in every sense.
enthusiastic bookworm
5つ星のうち5.0
A modern-day Ulysses
2023年10月2日にドイツでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
A couple of months ago, just for kicks, I asked chatGPT, whether it could recommend some writers similar to Graham Greene. I explained what I was looking for in terms of mood, depth of story, moral conundrums. One of the suggestions it came up with was Ian McEwan.
I think it was pretty much on target. Saturday, as the title suggests, encompasses a single day in Henry Perowne's life. But this fact shouldn't fool you: his day is full of events, and full of all sorts of dilemmas, small, big, and huge.
Ian McEwan brilliantly sets the mood,. If you're a fan of Greene, I can only recommend the book, for McEwan comes pretty close to the mark.
I think it was pretty much on target. Saturday, as the title suggests, encompasses a single day in Henry Perowne's life. But this fact shouldn't fool you: his day is full of events, and full of all sorts of dilemmas, small, big, and huge.
Ian McEwan brilliantly sets the mood,. If you're a fan of Greene, I can only recommend the book, for McEwan comes pretty close to the mark.
estirado4
5つ星のうち5.0
buena lectura
2021年7月19日にスペインでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Es una historia realmente interesante.
Kindle Customer
5つ星のうち5.0
The Rationalist among the Poets
2017年3月22日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Is our world defined by rationalism? If so, why do we become heroes for those whom we love? Why do music and poetry change our fates? Why does the most rational mind feel the unexpected pull from these irrational forms? And in what manner do we find our rest - our Saturday?
This wonderful book dares to explore this delicate space in our minds - to explore its mystery. It is a wondrous journey.
I love this book, and recommend it highly.
This wonderful book dares to explore this delicate space in our minds - to explore its mystery. It is a wondrous journey.
I love this book, and recommend it highly.
Tim_Sydney
5つ星のうち5.0
A Great Read
2019年9月10日にオーストラリアでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Wow. This novel is so well written and such a delight to read. It has to be one of my favourites this year. Timely and reflective, it’s an enthralling story.