It’s hard to imagine a writer with a more interesting and in many ways desirable career path than Ian McEwan. His fifteenth: fifteen books by this man that I have read, and having recently noted my unusual completeness of McEwan, it seemed to me that the new novel should be considered in the context of his work, the only prolific author for whom I could try to do this. And for reasons I’m not sure I fully understand, Ian McEwan, whom I started reading at the age of 20 and whom I follow hard, recently finished his recent book, Machines Like Me. There are very few artists whose full catalog I have ever felt obliged to digest: Kubrick, the Beatles, most of Alice Munro, perhaps no one else. Even if I really like a novel or an album, I usually let chance determine what I will read or listen to next. I am not a complete person by nature or inclination.
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