McEwan

For the past two weeks, I've had my favourite book of short stories, First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan sitting on the trunk beside my bed. I find surprising comfort reading it, just a page here and there, from any of the stories. I will forever be captivated by McEwans effortlessly flowing and lush writing style. My very favourite story is the namesake of the collection, First Love, Last Rites. I've typed out the opening paragraph here -which may be illegal, I'm not sure. Either way, I hope McEwan wouldn't mind, and I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do.

From the beginning of summer until it seemed pointless, we lifted the thin mattress on to the heavy oak table and made love in front of the large open window. We always had a breeze blowing into the room and smells of the quayside four floors down. I was drawn into fantasies against my will, fantasies of the creature, and afterwards when we lay on our backs on the huge table,  in those deep silences I heard i faintly running and clawing. It was new to me, all this, and i worried, I tried to talk to Sissel about it for reassurance. She had nothing to say, she did not make abstractions or discuss situations, she lived inside them. We watched the seagulls wheeling about in our square of sky and wondered if they had been watching us up there, that was the kind of thing we talked about, mildly entertaining hypotheses of the present moment. Sissel did things as the came to her, stirred her coffee, made love, listened to her records, looked out the window. She did not say things like I'm happy, or confused, or I want to make love, or I don't, or I'm tired of the fights in my family, she had no language to split herself in two, so I suffered alone what seemed like crimes in my head while we fucked, and afterwards listened alone to it scrabbling in the silence.