P-man Book Report

Mo said: Write a book review.

I replied: After our son was born, and prior to our move to larger premises, he slept in our room. As I had been accustomed to ending my day in bed with five latex-clad dwarves and a tub of... a good book, I love a good book, more than I could ever love a quincunx of midgets, tripe, and a brace of spatulas... where was I... with the kid in our room, it became impossible to read in bed. I know I could have changed my habit, to read on the couch, but something was always on.

Since our move, three weeks ago, I have again been able to read in bed, to enjoy hot dwarves, and fine literature. I have begun to devour books like hot tripe from the scapulae of five diminutive yet lusty... Hence this review of the novel pictured above.

I replied further: I can read books, but I have no idea how to review them. I prefer to rely on the opinions of others in these matters. But I continue to digress. Here we go. The book review. Without further ado. Any second.

"Amsterdam" is a book. It was written by Ian McEwan. Apparently. I did not see him write it. He's taken all the credit, which has been ample. Some have said he takes too much credit. He is not my favourite author. While his books are written very well the stories are usually grim. Where is the happy, Ian?

Mr. McEwan is not the only Ian who writes books. There are others.

This novel is a Booker Prize winner. For those of you who don't know (sniff) the Booker Prize is a literary award given each year to the best booker. Mr. McEwan was the best booker in 1998. (I know, I don't get out enough.) I can't believe people need me to tell them these things! This is a big award.

I expected this novel to be the basis of one of my favourite movies but I was sorely disappointed. This book was not, as hoped, a study of a deformed serial killer on the loose in Amsterdam, but a study of hubris as illustrated through two successful middle-aged Englishmen whose friendship is tested by events. The friendship fails as do the subjects. It is likely too obvious to note the tale is expertly rendered, the characters fully drawn, the narrative trajectory horrifying and beautiful to watch. So I won't mention those things. Forget it. I won't even recommend you purchase the book although I suppose I can, after all, since this is my book review. Never mind, I will leave that to someone who can offer a not-inaccurate precis of the book.

So, Amsterdam, it's a book. A good one.

I then suggested Mo write a book review of a novel, as opposed to a kid's book or child-wrangling guide.

Said Mo: Are you suggesting I have time to laze about and read books?

P-man out.