by Jessica Schneider

Created on: July 08, 2009   Last Updated: March 28, 2010

Yawn. On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan is an OK book, but nothing more than that. It's not bad, and nor is it really good either. It's actually one of those books that after having finished it, upon reflection, I do not think it's as good as I first thought. I actually do not understand the public's obsession with McEwan. Critics seem to praise him to no end, talking about how immensely talented he is. Is he a bad writer? No. Is he a great writer? Still no. I read Atonement a few years back and found it to be very boring. Then I skimmed (I admit) through Saturday and found it to be an a-b-c plot-driven tale with no wowing language. So now in my third attempt, I can say that On Chesil Beach is probably the best work from him I've seen, yet it is still in no way a great work.

The tale, although on the cover says it's a 'novel' is really a novella, for the book is one of those tiny ones you could stick in your pocket and pull out while waiting in the dentist's office. The sections are divided into five parts, all with large amounts of white space and added page numbers, giving this little book just barely over 200 pages. Now, having said that-this isn't necessarily a bad thing, for it is quite possible McEwan is at his best when kept short, for what I found in Atonement, the man tends to ramble.

On Chesil Beach tells the tale of Edward and Florence-set in 1962 at a Georgian Inn-on their wedding night. Both virgins, each are worried about not disappointing the other, yet Florence admits that she is 'repulsed' by the ideas of sex. The first scene we see them sitting over dinner and being excessively polite to one another. We see them playing eye games, as well as knowing what muses though their minds. Here is actually one of the nicer scenes in the book, some description McEwan uses to define their relationship:

"Their courtship had been pavane, a stately unfolding, bound by protocols never agreed or voiced but generally observed. Nothing was ever discussed-nor did they feel the lack of intimate talk. These were matters beyond words, beyond definition. The language and practice of therapy, the currency of feelings diligently shared, mutually analyzed, were not yet in general circulation."

"That's not so bad," you are thinking. No, it's not, which is why I marked it and what keeps me from saying that McEwan is a bad writer. He clearly is not. However, as the book progresses, we learn a bit of their backgrounds, how Florence is a violinist and loves classical music and

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