Quote

He was looking at her with amused suspicion. There was something between them, and even she had to acknowledge that a tame remark about the weather sounded perverse.

Ian Mcewan

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Ian Mcewan
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: June 21
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Belfast
Ireland
Sounded
Remarks
Suspicion
Acknowledge
Remark
Weather
Perverse
Looking
Tame
Even
Something
Amused

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Find you, love you, marry you, and live without shame.
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I'm sorry to say that far worse things have happened and the literature of the Holocaust is a witness to the capacity of the novel as a form.
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You enter a state of controlled passivity, you relax your grip and accept that even if your declared intention is to justify the ways of God to man, you might end up interesting your readers rather more in Satan.
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These memories sustained him, but not so easily. Too often they reminded him of where he was when he last summoned them. They lay on the far side of a great divide in time, as significant as B.C. and A.D. Before prison, before the war, before the sight of a corpse became a banality.
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I couldn't think about novels at all. It seemed the only writing that was appropriate to that horrendous event was journalism, reportage. And, in fact, I think the profession rose quite honorably to the task. Novelists require a slower turnover, I mean, in time.
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Now, I'm an atheist. I really don't believe for a moment that our moral sense comes from a god.
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The luxury of being half-asleep, exploring the fringes of psychosis in safety.
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There was, in my view, an unwritten contract with the reader that the writer must honour. No single element of an imagined world or any of its characters should be allowed to dissolve on an authorial whim. The invented had to be as solid and as self-consistent as the actual. This was a contract founded on mutual trust.
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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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He had never before felt so self-consciously young, nor experienced such appetite, such impatience for the story to begin.
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...beauty, she had discovered occupied a narrow band. Ugliness, on the hand, had infinite variation.
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Could it ever be explained, how matter becomes conscious?
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I like to think that it isn't weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair.
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It is not the first duty of the novelist to provide blueprints for insurrection, or uplifting tales of successful resistance for the benefit of the opposition. The naming of what is there is what is important.
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Let his name be cleared and everyone else adjust their thinking. He had put in time, now they must do the work. His business was simple. Find Cecilia and love her, marry her and live without shame.
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I often don't read reviews.
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I think the novel, its business is the investigation of human nature.
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The world should take note: not everything is getting worse.
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She would simply wait on the bridge, calm and obstinate, until events, real events, not her own fantasies, roe to her challenge, and dispelled her insignificance.
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If I could write the perfect novella I would die happy.
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