I expected to enjoy McEwan's novella, and I did. A sad and disturbing little book - disturbing, that is, if you pick up on the hints of the sexual abuse of Florence by her father. Sad in the way McEwan reminds us of the vulnerability of human beings, that brittleness that everyone hides, even from themselves. And also their toughness, I suppose. There's more than a suggestion that Florence translates her trauma into art, through her music.
McEwan is good, as always, on the comedy, and tragedy, of how clumsily we inhabit these bodies. In fact, it's difficult to think of anyone else who's written about sexual inadequacy so directly yet without the slightest hint of prurience. Despite getting carried along by the narrative I found myself putting the book down several times and not really wanting to go on, it was all so obviously going to end in tears. Mind you, I finished it in a day - a sign of its readability.
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