At a short literary conference, in which I speak tentatively about McEwan’s Saturday, an ex-tutor rather probingly, provocatively cross-examines: ‘But isn’t he just an old fart?’ To which I reply: ‘I, personally, just don’t see that reflected in his writing’.
Because McEwan is the master of writing on relationships: this is his forte. It is, it could be argued, precisely what we read a McEwan …
