I am in the last stages of my novel. In between corrections, proofreading and far too many late nights, I have been reading more Ondaatje and Ian McEwan's Saturday. I chomped through Saturday at an alarming pace, fell straight into the story from the very first page. It's a Mrs Dallowesque portrait, a day in life of Henry Perowne, neurosurgeon, a day where flesh, violence and the making of fish soup are deftly interwoven into games of squash, road rage, operations, rituals of affection and anti-war demonstrations. I have already begun re-reading this book, as the prose is beautiful, the sentences dense with meaning. The book feels archeological, or perhaps geological, a reading experience of many layers, closely compacted substance but with the energy of time leading the reader through the day. So, I am reading and writing, writing and reading. And finishing my book, Walking On Stone.
