The Comfort of Strangers by Ian McEwan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

"They often said they found it difficult to remember that the other was a separate person. [...] It was precisely this collusion that made them vulnerable and sensitive to each other, easily hurt by the rediscovery that their needs and interests were distinct."

I loved reading Ian McEwan's The Comfort of Strangers (1981). Captivating plot that skillfully builds atmosphere of menace and dread, remarkable psychological insights, outstanding prose, and - maybe most important – very small volume (fewer than 120 pages) would usually guarantee an at least four-star rating from me. Yet toward the end of the novella, something happened to my reception of the book. I remember the moment when my enthusiasm - quite suddenly - waned and a feeling of disappointment crept in.

Colin and Mary, an unmarried couple who have been with each other for seven years, are on vacations in an unnamed tourist city (obviously Venice, Italy). They do touristy things, they smoke a joint now and then, they have sex. They are both attractive and have been in the acting profession. The unfamiliar city seems like a maze to them: they keep getting lost in the tangle of small streets and alleys and can never find the way to where they want to get. The author convincingly builds the atmosphere of a bad dream where nothing dreadful really happens, but the feeling of doom intensifies with each moment. The reality becomes more and more "off-centered" and tinged with shades of nightmare. One day Colin and Mary meet a stranger, Robert, and that meeting will change their lives forever. Obviously not in a good way.

The "off-centeredness" and the disturbing feel remind me of The Vanishing , Tim Krabbé’s great thriller, made even more remarkable by the Dutch author’s good writing. I believe, though, that Mr. McEwan aspired to something deeper than a thriller. One can find some first-rate psychological stuff in Comfort: Colin and Mary having difficulties with separating their identities, the passages about missing the comfort of daily routine of their non-vacation lives, or the thread about how they love each other but not necessarily at any particular moment. I only wish the novella focused more on these themes.

I also love the humor: some of it subtle and a little nightmarish like when Mary is thirsty and cannot get a sip of water in the middle of all these canals, and then finally gets to a restaurant where the waiter offers her an espresso. There are lighter moments as well, for instance, Mary and Colin spend four days not leaving the hotel, occupied mainly with having sex and talking about all things sexual. It is then when Colin invents for Mary

"[...] a large, intricate machine, made of steel, painted bright red and powered by electricity; it had pistons and controls, straps and dials, and made a low hum when it was turned on [...]"

I will stop quoting here so as not to be accused of prurient interests.

McEwan's prose is wonderful: precise and economical, with no unneeded words. Nothing like his newer books, which I find interesting and readable yet overwrought and bloated. I also enjoy the visuals: while the Venice-like setting reminds me of the equally disturbing and very good movie Don't Look Now (1973), the feel of being lost in a maze brings memories of the great 1961 film Last Year in Marienbad. All this is wonderful stuff.

So what don't I find wonderful? The "crime thread", even if it is its inevitability that is the main point rather than the events themselves. I strongly dislike Robert's story of his childhood; I find it superfluous and spoiling the structure of the plot. Yet what mainly caused my enthusiasm about the book to evaporate was that the author explains why things happen. By providing explanations, he robs the plot of its mystery feel. Like a magician who, having performed a spectacular trick, shows how exactly we have been had. Very disappointing to me! I felt almost exactly the same when reading the very ending of the superb On Chesil Beach (McEwan’s book that I like the most, so far). By explaining the motives of human actions, the author takes away from me the option of interacting with the fiction. As a reader, I love to be a co-creator of the fictions and participate in figuring out the reasons why things are as they are rather than being spoon-fed by the author.

To sum up, Comfort, while a very good book, is flawed for me.

Three-and-three-quarter stars

(With thanks to my Goodreads friend, Judith, for the recommendation. I also "borrowed" from her the word 'doom' that captures the mood – ‘doom’ is ‘mood’ spelled backwards - in the novella.)

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