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...beauty, she had discovered occupied a narrow band. Ugliness, on the hand, had infinite variation.

Ian Mcewan

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Ian Mcewan
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: June 21
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Belfast
Ireland
Hands
Variation
Ugliness
Narrow
Discovered
Infinite
Band
Hand
Beauty
Occupied

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You can tell a lot from a person's nails. When a life starts to unravel, they're among the first to go.
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Briony began to understand the chasm that lay between an idea and its execution.
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It's good to get your hands dirty a bit and to test how you see things at a given point. And it's very pleasing after writing something like 'Atonement' or 'On Chesil Beach,' which are historical, to get involved in some plausible re-enactment of the here and now.
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When they kissed she immediately felt his tongue, tensed and strong, pushing past her teeth, like some bully shouldering his way into a room. Entering her.
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She returned his gaze, struck by the sense of her own transformation, and overwhelmed by the beauty which a lifetime havit had taught her to ignore.
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Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought, and that would take time.
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Nothing that can be, can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes.
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You can spin stories out of the ways people understand and misunderstand each other.
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The world should take note: not everything is getting worse.
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These were everyday sounds magnified by darkness. And darkness was nothing - it was not a substance, it was not a presence, it was no more than an absence of light.
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Especially difficult when the first and best unconscious move of a dedicated liar is to persuade himself he's sincere. And once he's sincere, all deception vanishes.
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All this happiness on display is suspect... If they think - and they could be right - that continued torture and summary executions, ethnic cleansing and occasional genocide are preferable to an invasion, they should be sombre in their view.
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But it was too interesting, too new, too flattering, too deeply comforting to resist, it was a liberation to be in love and say so, and she could only let herself go deeper.
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Shall there be womanly times? Or shall we die?
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And feeling clever, I've always thought, is just a sigh away from being cheerful.
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She loved him, though not at this particular moment.
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No one knew about the squirrel’s skull beneath Briony bed, but no one wanted to know.
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I believe the novella is the perfect form of prose fiction.
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The evasions of her little novel were exactly those of her life. Everything she did not wish to confront was also missing from her novella--and was necessary to it.
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She wanted to leave, she wanted to lie alone face down on her bed and savor the vile piquancy of the moment, and go back down the lines of branching consequences to the point before the destruction began. She needed to contemplate with eyes closed the full richness of what she had lost, what she had given away, and to anticipate the new regime.
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