Exploring the Future through Familiar Lenses: A Review of Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know
What if the stories we tell ourselves about the past don’t truly reflect reality? This intriguing question reverberates through Ian McEwan’s latest offering, What We Can Know, a thought-provoking exploration of memory, history, and the looming shadows of climate and political crises. As an avid fan of McEwan’s work, I jumped at the chance to delve into this eARC courtesy of NetGalley and Vintage Publishing, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my reflections on this captivating read.
From the outset, McEwan’s prose flows like a gentle river, inviting readers into a world a century ahead of our own. Yet, I must admit: part one felt a touch sluggish for my taste. The themes—figuring out if biographies and historical accounts are authentic representations of individuals, alongside the foreboding specter of our current climate and nuclear threats—are stark and urgent. However, the delivery of these ideas, especially through lengthy lists of political and climatic disasters, occasionally sapped the narrative’s momentum. Tom Metcalfe, our historian narrator, lives in isolation, which perhaps necessitated this approach, but as a reader, I craved a more organic world-building experience.
That said, McEwan’s insights on our potential future stirred a profound unease within me. The bleak reality he outlines felt disconcertingly plausible, filling me with a sense of urgency to act against such a dystopian fate. While the initial part lacked the pacing I relish, the stark realities presented urged me to reflect on my own memories and fears, tangentially connecting to my own journaling struggles. Much like the process of recalling memories, the characters grapple with capturing the essence of their experiences while battling the inherent limitations of memory.
As I ventured into part two (~60% in), the narrative took a thrilling turn. My interest piqued as I followed Vivien’s character, discovering subtle yet important contrasts between her worldview and Tom’s. The revelation of Percy’s murder—a twist that I sensed coming, yet I found deeply satisfying—exemplified McEwan’s knack for crafting moments that resonate even after the final page is turned. The tension built through hints from the first part created an emotionally charged atmosphere that heightened my reading experience.
Vivien’s character arc stands as a testament to McEwan’s brilliance. Depicted as both flawed and captivating, she emerges vividly in the latter chapters, and I was particularly struck by scenes that showcased her complexities—like the poignant interactions with the boy at the station and her reflections on Diana’s tragic death. These moments bore a raw emotional weight that enriched the narrative.
In conclusion, What We Can Know is a multifaceted examination of how we perceive both our past and future. If you appreciate dystopian fiction that probes existential questions about memory, perception, and societal decay, this book is an essential read. While the pacing may initially test your patience, the rewards found in Vivien’s journey and McEwan’s introspective themes are well worth the exploration. This book will linger long after reading, challenging you to consider how we narrate our own lives and the world around us. For anyone willing to grapple with profound ideas wrapped in McEwan’s signature style, this compelling exploration will surely resonate.