This is a brilliant work that can scarcely be embellished with known adjectives. The story of one Saturday in the life of Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, is an extraordinary and loving peek into his soul. A day that is both ordinary and extraordinary reveals the innermost recesses of the devoted family man, competitive squash player, ambivalent right-winger, thorough professional, dissolute cook and, perhaps, much else.
As the story unfolds, tracing gentle contours till it hits a bump or two, one is carried along by the marvelous and exact - but never parsimonious - prose. At every step, one can spot oneself hovering in the backdrop or even inside of Perowne himself. Surely, I too have been here before, even though, God knows, I cannot cut open brains or fish. Or do anything else that Perowne does and can.
McEwan’s book fulfills a profound criteria of greatness – it keeps the bright focus of searchlight burning inwards – our inwards – and persuades, even compels, us to come face to face with our own anxieties and fears, emotions and feelings, attitudes and perspectives. It is a moral book that perpetually nudges us to ask the critical existentialist question, “What must we do?”
