Ian McEwan Messages

Love doesn't grow at a steady rate, but advances in surges, bolts, wild leaps, and this was one of those.

We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.

That love which does not build a foundation on good sense is doomed.

Reading groups, readings, breakdowns of book sales all tell the same story: when women stop reading, the novel will be dead.

When its gone, you'll know what a gift love was. you'll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.

Oblivion seemed the only reasonable option.

Could it ever be explained, how matter becomes conscious?

A story lives transformed by a gesture not made or a word not spoken

I wouldn't mind being the lead guitarist in an incredibly successful rock band. However, I don't play the guitar.

Writing a novel resembles a journey with only the sketchiest of maps.