Ian McEwan's story begins in a cultural vacuum between repression and liberation. It is 1962 and newly weds--Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting--are just about to consummate their marriage at the age of 22.
"They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible."
With these introductory sentence, a love story and its accompanying tragedy of a lovely couple are unfurled against the backdrop of a tumultuous opening to a promising new decade, as the reticent ethos of a bygone era pretty much haunts the present.
The honeymoon is to take place beside Chesil Beach. The beach, a unique shingle structure, seems like a metaphor to the themes: of certainty clashes with the unknown menace beyond; of the path that they have just embarked as a married couples; of a romance that is wedged between the ingrained righteousness and the approaching tsunami of sexual liberation.
McEwan is pitch-perfect at tackling the awkward politeness of this relationship and, as a climax, turning it into something far more disturbing. Edward is flummoxed by her reticence in intimacy; Florence is revulsed by his advances. Both view the shortcomings as an affliction or curse with no remedy. McEwan's exquisite prose effortlessly waxes lyrical about the insignificant moments in the novel - the meal, the clumsy fumbling towards sex and the climax on the beach, which interweave gracefully without loosing any of its consistency.
"They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible."
With these introductory sentence, a love story and its accompanying tragedy of a lovely couple are unfurled against the backdrop of a tumultuous opening to a promising new decade, as the reticent ethos of a bygone era pretty much haunts the present.
The honeymoon is to take place beside Chesil Beach. The beach, a unique shingle structure, seems like a metaphor to the themes: of certainty clashes with the unknown menace beyond; of the path that they have just embarked as a married couples; of a romance that is wedged between the ingrained righteousness and the approaching tsunami of sexual liberation.
McEwan is pitch-perfect at tackling the awkward politeness of this relationship and, as a climax, turning it into something far more disturbing. Edward is flummoxed by her reticence in intimacy; Florence is revulsed by his advances. Both view the shortcomings as an affliction or curse with no remedy. McEwan's exquisite prose effortlessly waxes lyrical about the insignificant moments in the novel - the meal, the clumsy fumbling towards sex and the climax on the beach, which interweave gracefully without loosing any of its consistency.
The narrative backtracks with the protagonists' upbringing and their chance encounter. We begin to relate the tangible conventions of their backgrounds to their characteristics. It all make sense now: Edward's bucolic childhood is upset by an accident sustained by his mother that leaves her mentally challenged; Florence is suffocated in her family, overwhelmed by parental expectation. The implications of the tragedy and trauma reverberate violently in the narrative.
There is a fairy-tale quality to the book, in that everything that follows seems inevitable. The genuinely heartrending aftermath of the newlyweds’ disastrous night manage to evoke our sympathies, which won't settle even after finish reading it.
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