|Cathy and Heathcliffe|
This one's for you, Sextant. There are a very few authors I can relate to and whose writing I find, is exquisite in every way, Ian McKewan is one of them. Consider this extract from 'Saturday'....p. 39
“Henry lies still, waiting for sleep. By contemporary standards, it’s perverse that he’s never tired of making love to Rosalind, never been seriously tempted by the opportunities that have drifted his way through the generous logic of medical hierarchy. When he thinks of sex, he thinks of her. These eyes, these breasts, this tongue, this welcome. Who else could love him so knowingly, with such warmth and teasing humour, or accumulate so rich a past with him? In one lifetime it wouldn’t be possible to find another woman with whom he can learn to be so free, whom he can please with such abandon and expertise. By some accident of character, it’s familiarity that excites him more than sexual novelty. He suspects there’s something numbed or deficient or timid in himself. Plenty of male friends sidle into adventures with younger women; now and then a solid marriage explodes in a fire fight of recrimination. Perowne watches on with unease, fearing he lacks an element of the masculine life force, and a bold and healthy appetite for experience. Where’s his curiosity? What’s wrong with him? But there’s nothing he can do about himself. He meets the occasional questioning glance of an attractive woman with a bland and level smile. This fidelity might look like virtue or doggedness, but it’s neither of these because he exercises no real choice. This is what he has to have; possession, belonging, repetition. “
Other life-long favorites are: Sebastian Faulks, C.P Snow and Barbara Kingsolver. I wish I could write like them. I do hope Ian McKewan doesn't mind me quoting from one of his marvelous books. ....Just having a quiet afternoon, thinking about stuff.