Details Books Supposing Nutshell
| Original Title: | Nutshell |
| Edition Language: | English |
| Literary Awards: | Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Fiction (2016), Europese Literatuurprijs Nominee (2017) |
Ian McEwan
Hardcover | Pages: 208 pages Rating: 3.67 | 41403 Users | 5216 Reviews
Relation Toward Books Nutshell
Nutshell is a classic story of murder and deceit, told by a narrator with a perspective and voice unlike any in recent literature. A bravura performance, it is the finest recent work from a true master.To be bound in a nutshell, see the world in two inches of ivory, in a grain of sand. Why not, when all of literature, all of art, of human endeavour, is just a speck in the universe of possible things.
Define Out Of Books Nutshell
| Title | : | Nutshell |
| Author | : | Ian McEwan |
| Book Format | : | Hardcover |
| Book Edition | : | First American |
| Pages | : | Pages: 208 pages |
| Published | : | September 13th 2016 by Nan A. Talese (first published September 2016) |
| Categories | : | Fiction. Contemporary. Mystery. Literary Fiction |
Rating Out Of Books Nutshell
Ratings: 3.67 From 41403 Users | 5216 ReviewsCommentary Out Of Books Nutshell
My seventh McEwan novel and one of his strongest. Within the first few pages, I was captivated and utterly convinced by the voice of this contemporary, in utero Hamlet. Provided you suspend disbelief a bit to accept he can see/hear/surmise everything that happens the most tedious passages are those where McEwan tries to give more precise justification for his narrators observations the plot really works. Not even born and already a snob with an advanced vocabulary and a taste for fine wine,
The narrator is a middle-aged brain trapped inside an unborn baby, itself trapped inside a novel, the events of which the narrator cant see happening because he's in the dark, much like the reader, but nonetheless, he, the narrator, can recount the events once hes heard that theyve happened, and his account is very entertaining even if critical of the crazy plot and unbelievable characters, but unlike the reader, who can abandon the book anytime she wishes, the narrator cant seem to make up his
Hamlet in Utero Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite spacewere it not that I have bad dreams. I could check online, I suppose, but I suspect there is a story here. Is it a coincidence that, within months of the launch of the Hogarth Shakespeare series, in which famous authors (so far Jeanette Winterson, Howard Jacobson, Anne Tyler, and Margaret Atwood) are asked to retell Shakespeare plays in their own words, Ian McEwan (surely the equal of any of them)
A book that is narrated by an eight month old fetus. He describes what he see and hears, from his father and his love of poetry to the nefarious plans of his mother and his uncle, his father's own brother. So why did I have such a disconnect with this book? The writing is wonderful, amazing in places. Was it that I had a hard time envisioning a fetus using this level of thought and speech? Not sure, though I did find myself occasionally shaking my head at the thought especially since I am not a
Update one week post reading: So, I am seeing now that this book is a re-telling of Hamlet!?!? How did I miss that!?4 to 4.5 starsSeems like this offering from McEwan tends not to get very high ratings, but I liked it quite a bit. It was more of a novella than a novel, but that is what I needed right now a quick and enjoyable read!The key to this book is that it is told from the perspective of an in-utero fetus with the intelligence of an adult. As I mentioned in one of my comments while I was
A wildly snobbish neonatal persona, Fetus Cairncross, introduces himself to the world in no uncertain terms: "So here I am, upside down in a woman. Arms patiently crossed, waiting, waiting and wondering who Im in, what Im in for. My eyes close nostalgically when I remember how I once drifted in my translucent body bag, floated dreamily in the bubble of my thoughts through my private ocean in slow-motion somersaults, colliding gently against the transparent bounds of my confinement, the confiding
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