![]() ![]() It is not the first, or even the 10th, place to start reading McEwan if you’ve never encountered him before. “Machines Like Me” conjures a love triangle between a floundering Brit named Charlie Friend, a secretive doctoral student named Miranda and a replicant named Adam. We still read him not for comfort, but dread. But McEwan’s characters still tend to be dangerously un-self-aware and headed toward nothing good. ![]() He’s a far more cerebral writer now, as well as a more humanist one. It’s been 40 years since the author made his name ( and his nickname “Ian Macabre”) by rolling grenades about thrill kills, incest and dismemberment into what he regarded as the polite, heat-drowsy garden party of contemporary British fiction. ![]() Ian McEwan’s latest novel asks if the manufacture of synthetic humans would spark enlightenment and ease or fractiousness and pain - but, come on, it’s obviously not going to be pretty, because which part of “Ian McEwan novel” do you not understand? ![]()
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