Atonement : Ian McEwan

This winter I set myself the task of rekindling the appetite for moderately serious reading. It's not that I have totally fallen out with books, but in the past couple of years, I have rarely preferred the reading activity to something less challenging, like watching television or listening to music.

I discovered three great writers in the past fortnight: Coetzee, Marquez and McEwan. The third, I now idlolize. Consequently, this is not as much a review as an exhortation to read his book, Atonement (I have discovered that I write execrabe reviews anyway: I seem hardly able to venture beyond the clichés). I have read two of his earlier novels, the booker winning Amsterdam and Enduring Love. Amsterdam was somewhat disappointing but Enduring Love was a gem. I presumed, foolishly, I might add, that McEwan had set a standard that would be difficult to surpass, if not at least emulate.

Atonment proved me wrong. At its center is Brionny, a 13 year old girl who, in her girlish immaturity, commits a horrible wrong on her elder sister Cecelia and their neighbour Robbie. Though, her intentions at that time are hardly malicious, she is torn with guilt her entire life and seeks absolution for her impassioned sin. Is she granted the atonement she so desperately seeks?

McEwan has addressed the nebulous theme of forgiveness in this novel. Can we hope to be forgiven for our past mistakes? Whose forgiveness do we ultimately seek? And who has the right or moral authority to grant anyone absolute pardon?

When I finished reading the last page, I sat almost immobile for five minutes. Then I reread the last chapter: I just couldn't bring myself to finish the book. Twelve hours later, my mind still echoes with the voices of Brionny, Cecelia and Robbie and their faces swim before me when I close my eyes.