I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into when I picked up this novel. My expectations are laughable in retrospect. I bought The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan and I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith at nearly the same time (I still have yet to read the latter), because I was in the mood to read novels exploring family dynamics in old, established homes, laced in innocence and emotion of familial bonds. I imagined both of those books to be that wholesome vibe. Anyone who has ever read The Cement Garden is having a good laugh at my expense.
The Cement Garden has never heard of wholesome. The Cement Garden has seen innocence, evaluated her, recognized that they should be related though perhaps distantly, and ravaged her. It sits in the same room as innocence and makes it uncomfortable.
I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say what the book is actually about. What you can find out about the book from the back blurb is that the main characters are four siblings who are left alone to fend for themselves after their parents die. What actually dominates the book is our protagonist, Jack, lusting after his older sister Julie.
I was utterly shocked at page 16 and felt like I was picked up from a comfortable place and somehow misplaced, and I sat in unease for the rest of the book. Which I’m sure is exactly what McEwan intended. I remember writing in my review for McEwan’s On Chesil Beach that I admired McEwan for confronting that subject material…I had no idea of the extent of his bravery. I’m actually very surprised to learn this was his first novel. You have to be a good writer to pull this off. Because shockingly, I didn’t hate this book.
I do enjoy McEwan’s writing, as always. He’s extremely talented at crafting characters and atmosphere. I read the book in anticipatory dismay at what I hoped the characters would not do, and was disturbed by the dynamic between Julie and infantilized Tom. The blurb on the back summarized the book perfectly in a “tour de force of psychological unease,” I don’t know how I selectively blinded myself to that part before reading. Or maybe I didn’t; I was just expecting a more wholesome suspense.
I never felt like this book was an indulgence of a fantasy or that McEwan condoned the content. And he also never indulged in a preachy tone that condemned the content. It was simply a psychological exploration of the disturbing; how self-imposed isolation with the desire for kinship, the sharing of a secret, and the lack of authority can allow the abandonment of morals without even realizing—or not caring that—they’re slipping away; how the lack of structure can lend a sort of unreality to the world and consequences disappear.
I have no desire to read this book again, but it surprisingly doesn’t disgust me as books of the same subject matter might, and it doesn’t deter my excitement to read more McEwan—it might even heighten it considering the skill.
