‘Chesil’ substantial tale of newlywed’s first fateful night
“On Chesil Beach”
by Ian McEwan (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, 208 pages, $22)
Talk about minimalism: Ian McEwan’s new novel, “On Chesil Beach,” unfolds almost entirely over the course of a young couple’s wedding night, and the plot hinges on a brief moment of sexual awkwardness.
It’s the book McEwan seems to have been building toward for years. His last novel, “Saturday,” had a similarly compressed time frame, taking place over the course of a single, tense day; his two books before that, “Atonement” and “Amsterdam,” both told stories similar to that of “On Chesil Beach,” about the disastrous consequences of silence and miscommunication.
Is McEwan conducting some sort of academic experiment here, trying to figure out how far into the realm of pared-down abstraction he can journey without completely alienating the reader? “On Chesil Beach” – which is just 202 pages long and can easily be finished in one sitting – sometimes feels that way.
But McEwan hasn’t lost any of his powers of observation or his ability to illuminate the tensions that fester just beneath the placid surface of everyday life. The result is like an appetizer prepared by a four-star chef: It might leave you hungry for another course, but it still manages to be satisfying in its own right.
Chesil Beach is the summer resort on the Dorset coast to which Edward and Florence have come to celebrate their nuptials. The year is 1962, “a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible.”
Both of them grew up near Oxford, though on the proverbial opposite side of the tracks: Florence lived in luxury, the daughter of a successful businessman; Edward came from a “squalid family home,” with a mother who spent her days in bed in the throes of a deep depression.
The first section of the book is devoted to an awkward dinner between the delicate Florence and the more coarse-natured Edward, as the expectation of sex hangs over them like an ever-darkening storm cloud. McEwan is especially adept at capturing Florence’s terror at having to sleep with Edward for the first time.
“The moment was rising to meet her, just as she was foolishly moving towards it,” the author writes. “She was trapped in a game whose rules she could not question.”
In less-confident hands, “On Chesil Beach” might have come off as overwrought and ridiculous – especially to modern readers, who may wonder why these two people are making such a big fuss about sex.
But McEwan treats their dilemma seriously, effortlessly shifting from Edward’s perspective to Florence’s and back again, making their anxieties seem human and recognizable.
By the time Florence and Edward finally get into bed, “On Chesil Beach” has revealed itself to be a surprisingly affecting tragicomedy – a study of how misinterpreted gestures and tiny mistakes can gradually accumulate and finally destroy everything.
McEwan’s description of the (all too brief) sexual coupling and the terrible fight between Florence and Edward that ensues is funny without being mocking, and humane without being sentimental; it could be the story, wrought in miniature, of any marriage that simply wasn’t meant to be.
This certainly won’t be remembered as one of McEwan’s major books. But as experiments in minimalism go, it packs a considerable punch.