'Saturday' by Ian McEwan.

Having read several of his books, I have concluded that Ian McEwan annoys me a bit. In both interviews and through his writing, he comes across as rather arrogant. There’s something about the way he not-so-subtly slips in his own opinions (such as those on religion, which seem to come up in every book he writes, no matter the subject) that feels quite patronising. Despite this, I really enjoyed Saturday. I can’t say whether the reason I read it so fast was because compared to Portrait it’s incredibly simple to read, or because I really enjoyed it. I thought it was a bit of a slow start, and it frequently digresses from the plot, but as the story covers one day of one man’s life, I think McEwan can be forgiven for meandering a bit.

Saturday follows Henry Perowne, a respected neurosurgeon, through one very eventful day of his life (Saturday, 15^th February 2003). He wakes in the middle of the night, and witnesses what he thinks is a comet, but later discovers was a plane crash. He plays a game of squash with another neurosurgeon. He attends his son’s gig. He is involved in a minor car crash, and swiftly diagnoses the other driver with Huntingdon’s disease. The driver proceeds to ruin a family gathering and fall down a staircase. He muses over life, and humanity, and talks a lot about brains and how they work (not thoughts and dreams and memories, cerebral cortexes and putamens and serenellellenellas – that last one I made up) which gets a bit boring after a while if you’re not interested in brains, but you forgive him for it because he’s a nice guy. It was Perowne’s children, however, who really captured me. His daughter Daisy is an Oxford graduate and a poet. She has elfin grace and an Italian boyfriend called Giulio. I wouldn’t mind being Daisy. His son Theo is a dark-haired, dark-eyed blues musician, who makes beautiful music I wish I could hear.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Saturday is making me rethink my slight dislike of Ian McEwan. If he wrote like this more often, I would like him more. The book still has passages about religion being a load of rubbish, and the main character again works in the field of science, but Henry’s not arrogant about it and doesn’t try to shove his beliefs down the readers’ throat. Maybe I’ll try another McEwan at some point, but I doubt I’ll like it more than I liked this one.

Favourite quote: “These are the rare moments when musicians together touch something sweeter…This is when they give us a glimpse of what we might be, of our best selves, and of an impossible world in which you give everything you have to others, but lose nothing of yourself.”

Not giving up, just temporarily putting it away.

I have a confession to make: I haven't finished ‘The Portrait of a Lady’. I’ve been plodding through it for almost a month and I’m only 200 pages in. It’s possibly the slowest I’ve ever read a book. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but there’s something about Portrait of a Lady I don’t quite get.

The plot is simple enough – independent, proud young woman travels from America to England, and lives with her elderly and eccentric relatives. She’s beautiful, of course, and all the British men falling in love with her all over the place. When her uncle dies and leaves her a lot of money, she attracts the attention of some Undesirable Characters (who, of course, appear completely charming and lovely and she promptly falls in love with). I don’t know what happens after that - my friend Imelda said it ends sadly, though.

I’m not giving up, because I never give up on books. I’m just going to put it aside and start something new, because reading a book I’m not enjoying puts a dampener on everything else. I will finish it, at some point. For now, though, I’m going to read the next book on the list.

Document time passing.

I was going through a load of old photo albums with my sister yesterday, and I remembered this page, and was a little inspired.


I was going to do a sort of monologue of an hour in my life, or document my day, but I like the pictureness and I think it looks much prettier than just writing.

I was going to do a sort of monologue of an hour in my life, or document my day, but I like the pictureness and I think it looks much prettier than just writing. It was quite lovely, looking at all the old photos. I remembered all my favourite outfits when I was young (my mum knitted me this amazing black-and-white jumper, bobbles and all, my welly phase, the leggings my friend had which I wanted so, so badly because they had hearts on them). I remembered my best friend Jonathan, who moved to Plymouth when I was five or six, and all the times he pushed me over and drew me pictures and dressed up as a prince for me. I remembered the silly games me and my sister used to play. I remembered my first day of reception. It was rather emotional, in a nice way.

(I didn't draw the grandfather clock, I traced it from a drawing I found on the internet.)

Create a non-stop line.

I have managed to successfully convert three of my friends to wrecking! They looked at the journal and thought it sounded really fun, and have all ordered copies from Amazon.

For this prompt, I didn't want a completely black-and-white page, and so decided to do a yellow wash on top. I intended it to be more pale yellow, but my talent with paint is limited and so it's rather more in-your-face than I would have liked. And the lines aren't as close together as I planned. This wasn't hard at all - no destruction involved, and nothing too thought-provoking or exciting. I'll try and make it more interesting next time!

Wreck this Journal 1.

I thought I'd start off doing something relatively simple, so I've just scribbled on the title page. If you're interested, the writing says:

Once upon a time, there was a girl

who liked to keep things neat.

She hated turned-down corners in books,

and messy smudges on pages,

and stains on clothes or furniture.

Her books stayed pristine

(though her favourites were a little worn

from extensive rereading).

Her journal was a little scruffy

but only in the way

that most teenage girls’ journals are.

Then one day, she bought a book.

This book asked to be ruined.

It wanted to be dropped, painted on, and torn.

She was shocked that somebody

would create a book like that,

but decided to have a go at one or two pages.

She never looked back.

The journal quickly ceased to be neat

and she began to appreciate

that sometimes,

mess is beautiful.

(She is still very particular about her books.

Some things will never change.)

This wasn't too hard to do. I quite enjoyed writing over the printed bits, and the painting was relatively simple. It also looks quite neat, which I'm secretly pleased about (I don't really want messy. Maybe nice messy, artistic messy, but no horrible messy.)

A slight intermission.

I ordered this book recently, having seen some really good reviews of it, and it arrived today. And I've decided, because if I only review books this blog will barely ever be updated, that I will also post entries documenting my wreckage. At the moment, I'm finding it very hard to do anything to it, because it looks so pretty and new. I might force myself to do something, because I'm sure it will be easier once I've started.


Wreck This Journal is a book which wants to be destroyed. It's aimed at perfectionists (like me), who like to keep things neat and the objective is to really wreck the journal. There is a different activity on every page - some are creative, some destructive. I like making lists, so here are some examples of the different pages:
1. Add your own page numbers.
2. Crack the spine.
3. Leave this page blank on purpose.
4. Tear out. Crumple.
5. Pour, spill, drip, spit, fling your coffee here.
6. Poke holes in this page using a pencil.
7. Tie a string to the spine of the book. Swing wildly.
8. Cover this page using only office supplies.
9. Collect the stamps off of all your mail.
10. Write one word over and over.

‘Any Human Heart’ by William Boyd.

I was given this as a Christmas present by my lovely friend Livvy, who loves reading just as much as me and appreciates how special new books are. Coincidentally, Channel 4 recently adapted this into a four-part drama (starring the delectable Sam Claflin, and the lovely Matthew MacFayden), and I am a strict believer in read-before-you-watch, so have been devouring this like a mad thing. 

The book begins with a Henry James quote – never a bad thing, if you ask me – "Never say you know the last word about any human heart.". It doesn’t exactly have a plot, there is no real message, and the main character has more flaws than good qualities. This doesn’t sound promising, I know, but bear with me – it’s fantastic. The book doesn’t need a plot, or a message, because it’s about a life – and Logan Mountstuart’s life is both ordinary and extraordinary. Through a mixture of his journals and short informative third-person narratives, we read as Logan falls in love, meets famous historical figures – Ernest Hemingway, Ian Fleming, the Duke of Windsor, and Virginia Woolf all feature at some point – visits different countries, takes on some very different jobs, writes novels, and does stupid things. The wonderful thing about this book is how real it feels. Logan is not the best person in the world, he is very human and consequently I found myself really caring about him.

We get a mixture of information – sometimes we hear what Logan ate for breakfast, the weather, or what he read in the newspaper, and sometimes we read eloquent passages on Logan’s ideas about life and its important issues, or his thoughts on an event that profoundly affects him. Logan writes differently when he is in a bad mood, when he is excited, or when he is depressed, and his voice changes over time. Boyd’s intention was to convey the idea that we are different people at different times of our lives, and you do get that idea by reading the novel. And I can’t stress this point enough – it’s just so real. I had to continually remind myself that he’s a fictional character, so I wouldn’t search Amazon for a copy of Les Cosmopolites.

Boyd is brilliant. I discovered that he’s also written a ‘biography’ of one of the characters mentioned later on in Any Human Heart – a fictional artist called Nat Tate – which I think will be added to the list of books I have to read. The (sorry for repetitiveness!) realness of this book is my favourite thing about it – it sounds like a real journal, and tells the story of a very real-sounding life, and a very human heart.

Favourite quote: It was hard, because there are many, but I’ll go for: “I only want to be with Freya: time away from her is time irretrievably lost.”