Saturday

I read Ian McEwan's Saturday several weeks ago and I still can't decide if I really liked it. Part of my annoyance was no fault of the book's. I had read a string of books that were essentially about navel gazing middle aged men from the late 20th Century pondering Their Place In the World. American Pastoral. Underworld. The Sea. And now, Saturday.

The book is about Henry Perowne, a successful neurosurgeon and his perfect life and family. His wife is a successful lawyer, his daughter a just-published poetess, his son a locally acclaimed blues guitarist. His father in law is a famous poet who lives in France, and all is swell in Henry's wealthy, just-so universe. Talk about a character it's hard to like!

The novel takes place entirely on the titular day of the week, and begins with a potential harbinger of doom. Henry awakes early to see a plane apparently crash on entry into Heathrow. Terrorist act? Henry seems sure that it was. His day is busy and eventful, and he has scheduled a game of squash, a trip to the market, a visit to his mother (who has Alzheimer's) and finally a big family dinner that is meant to be a reconciliation between his daughter and her grandfather, who had a falling out the summer before. However, during the course of the day, a fender bender with a sociopath named Baxter threatens to change the whole game plan.

I felt like some of the scenes in this novel were gratuitous, especially when Baxter holds the family hostage. The writing is strong, but the story could only truly be of interest to someone who felt some kind of familiarity with Perowne's life and lifestyle. I didn't. But maybe that was the point. Maybe McEwan wanted to point out that even in the most perfect of lives, there is a constant threat of upheaval and unhappiness. If that was the point, Roth did it much better in American Pastoral.