Poisoned Cupcake

Come on, oh my star is fading
And I see no chance of release
And I know I'm dead on the surface
But I am screaming underneath...*

I remember that, in commenting about Ian McEwan's Atonement, I mentioned that I had read an earlier, shorter work of McEwan's, but I barely remembered anything about the plot or the title. That comment, I'll admit, smacked of utmost pretentiousness - something I'm usually guilty about when it comes to unplugging my piehole - but I was so convinced of having read the book that I actually re-borrowed it from the library and re-read it.

That book? Amsterdam.

I'm surprised that, given all the attention on that gigantic magnum opus that is Atonement - not to mention the post-Atonement kudos for On Chesil Beach - there really isn't enough attention being paid to McEwan's earlier works. But I think that's just me, because I tend to associate the author more with compact, twisted stories like Amsterdam than overwhelming period epics complete with Keira Knightley swanning around in green satin.

(And speaking of film adaptations of McEwan: The trailer for Enduring Love not only scares the Beelzebub out of me - what with Rhys Ifans serenading Daniel Craig with the creepiest cover version of "God Only Knows" - but it scares me so much that I can't even pick up the book without hearing that song. Nooooooo!)

Going back to Amsterdam: I can't read it without thinking of the book as a perfect little poisoned cupcake - and not because of the twist at the end, so dark and bitter that (to paraphrase a description of a recent conversation with an ex) bars of Valrhona and Scharffen-Berger are looking at it and thinking, "Damn, at least I have some sugar." I read this and I can't help but wonder how McEwan managed to fit so many moving targets in such a compact little story: friendship, infidelity, mortality, moral indignation, the hypocrisy of politicians, the twisted nature of the mass-media beast. Not even the creative process escapes McEwan's impeccable eye here, especially when it's laid bare, both as a wasteful self-indulgence and a vital component for the uplift of the spirit.

With so many ripe targets in such a tiny book, one's left to wonder if even a bare-bones summary - two friends meet at a funeral for a former lover; chaos ensues, beginning with the revelation of the woman's scandalous affair with a politician - is enough to give a taste of what really lies beneath. It's not the kind of book you really want to pass on to a friend, unless you're prepared for a difficult conversation: What price friendship? What constitutes a betrayal of a person's memory? What good would art and morality be, when the arbiters themselves are flawed? And more tellingly... in the last precious moments of your life, whose face would you rather see?

Stuck to the edge of this ball and chain
I'm on my way back down
Stood on a bridge, tied to the noose
Sick to the stomach
You can say what you mean
But it won't change a thing
I'm sick of the secrets
Stood on the edge, tied to a noose
You came along and you cut me loose...

- *Coldplay