On Thursday, when British Booker prize winning novelist Ian McEwan read in Vancouver from his new novel, Solar, we witnessed a dramatic demonstration of a literary truism: the author is not the narrator.
McEwan's first reading in Vancouver was a special event of the Vancouver International Writers Festival and took place at St. Andrews Wesley United Church on Burrard. He was introduced and interviewed by Hal Wake, the Artistic Director of that festival.
Before the event, I met with friends for a bite to eat. Discussing his works, we speculated about McEwan, propounding contradictory theories about his height and posture, manner and mien.
None of us expected a comedian. But as he answered Wake's questions, I heard tittering from the friend on my right. Although we had arrived early for rush seating in the wooden pews, we were far off to the side, and Joan was watching avidly through her opera glasses, oblivious to the possibility of turned heads. She led the way, but the laughter soon became general.
McEwan responded to several of Wake's interview questions. Then, saying "I feel a reading coming on," he treated the audience to a humorous portrayal of a character from Solar, the Nobel laureate twenty years later, now seedy and greedy, gorging on rich food.
Humor was by no means all. When questioned about the theme of his latest novel, the author said that global warming was one of the most dramatic facts of our time. 911 had generated "a whole literature," but nobody was writing fiction about climate change, "so I had to."
I was struck by McEwan's perception of flying in to Vancouver. The huge numbers of horizontal trees floating in the Fraser estuary shocked him. Having lived on "the wet coast" for the past 50 years, I'd become used to aerial views of log booms.
"The sense of impending loss as the climate changes must be so much greater for you here in Canada," he said, "with all this beautiful forest at your doorsteps."
McEwan also responded to questions about his development as a writer. Like many North Americans, we three had been introduced to his work by the brilliant novel Atonement, and the almost equally brilliant film by the same name. When asked how he felt about having his work filmed, the author said he enjoyed it, adding the caveat that the medium of film is limited. A film can never be as good as the book, since it is impossible to show the thoughts of the characters.
My young friend had remarked over dinner that compared to the raw edginess of this author's early short stories, his more recent work seemed tame. His comments explained this. Early on, he deliberately set out to challenge himself, to move beyond the "formulaic" voices of seventies novelists, which he found rather "boring."
Ian McEwan's speech was both intelligent and humorous, but it was an anecdote that gave me the best glimpse of the person behind his many and varied works. He was downsizing the bookshelves of his home in London, and went out with his son to offer free books to office workers who were eating their lunches in the adjacent square.
Many more women than men were the enthusiastic recipients of the gift of books. "Women," said McEwan, "have kept the novel alive." This humble appreciation of readers was impressive, coming from a brilliant writer who has personally done so much to help the novel continue to thrive.
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