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Stephen Lewis, a successful writer of children's books, is confronted with the unthinkable: his only child, three-year-old Kate, is snatched from him in a supermarket. In one horrifying moment that replays itself over the years that follow, Stephen realizes his daughter is gone.With extraordinary tenderness and insight, Booker Prize–winning author Ian McEwan takes us into the dark territory of a marriage devastated by the loss of a child. Kate's absence sets Stephen and his wife, Julie, on diverging paths as they...
Stephen Lewis, a successful writer of children's books, is confronted with the unthinkable: his only child, three-year-old Kate, is snatched from him in a supermarket. In one horrifying moment that replays itself over the years that follow, Stephen realizes his daughter is gone.With extraordinary tenderness and insight, Booker Prize–winning author Ian McEwan takes us into the dark territory of a marriage devastated by the loss of a child. Kate's absence sets Stephen and his wife, Julie, on diverging paths as they each struggle with a grief that only seems to intensify with the passage of time. Eloquent and passionate, the novel concludes in a triumphant scene of love and hope that gives full rein to the author's remarkable gifts. The winner of the Whitbread Prize, The Child in Time is an astonishing novel by one of the finest writers of his generation.
A spare yet evocative novel that explores the dark sides of parenting and humanity by an author compared to Dickens, Lawrence and Woolf.
"...and for those parents, for too many years misguided by pallid relativism of self-appointed child-care experts..."
- The Authorized Child-Care Handbook,
Her Majesty's Stationery Office
Subsidizing public transport had long been associated in the minds of both government and the majority of its public with the denial of individual liberty. The various services collapsed twice a day at rush hour when it was quicker, Stephen found, to walk from his flat at Whitehall than to take a taxi. It was late May, barely nine-thirty, and already the temperature was nudging the eighties. He strode to Vauxhall Bridge past double and treble files of trapped, throbbing cars, each with its solitary driver. In tone the pursuit of liberty was more resigned than passionate. Ringed fingers drummed patiently on the sill of a hot tin roof, white-shirted elbows poked through rolled-down windows. There were newspapers spread over steering wheels. Stephen stepped quickly through the crowds, through layers of car radio blather—jingles, high-energy breakfast DJs, news flashes, traffic "alerts." Those drivers not reading listened stolidly. The steady forward press of the pavement crowds must have conveyed to them a sense of relative motion, of drifting slowly backwards.
Jigging and weaving to overtake, Stephen remained as always, though barely consciously, on the watch for children, for a five-year-old girl. It was more than a habit, for a habit could be broken. This was a disposition, the outline experience had stenciled on character. It was not principally a search, though it had once been an obsessive hunt, and for a long time too. Two years on, only vestiges of that remained; now it was a longing, a dry hunger. There was a biological clock, dispassionate in its unstoppability, which let his daughter go on growing, extended and complicated her simple vocabulary, made her stronger, her movements surer. The clock, sinewy like a heart, kept faith with an unceasing conditional: she would be drawing, she would be starting to read, she would be losing a milk tooth. She would be familiar, taken for granted. It seemed as though the proliferating instances might wear down this conditional, the frail, semiopaque screen whose fine tissues of time and chance separated her from him; she is home from school and tired, her tooth is under the pillow, she is looking for her daddy.
Any five-year-old girl —though boys would do — gave substance to her continued existence. In shops, past playgrounds, at the houses of friends, he could not fail to watch out for Kate in other children, or ignore them in the slow changes, the accruing competences, or fail to feel the untapped potency of weeks and months, the time that should have been hers. Kate's growing up had become the essence of time itself. Her phantom growth, the product of an obsessive sorrow, was not only inevitable — nothing could stop the sinewy clock — but necessary. Without the fantasy of her continued existence he was lost, time would stop. He was the father of an invisible child.
But here on Millbank there were only ex-children shuffling to work. Further up, just before Parliament or Whitehall or within sight of the square. But a few were taking advantage of the confluence of commuter routes. He saw their bright badges from a couple of hundred yards away. This was their weather, and they looked cocky with their freedom. The wage-earners had to give way. A dozen beggars were working both sides of the street, moving towards him steadily against the surge. It was a child Stephen was watching now, not a five-year-old, but a skinny prepubescent. She had registered him at some distance. She walked slowly, somnambulantly, the regulation black bowl extended. The office workers parted and converged about her. Her eyes were fixed on Stephen as she came. He felt the usual ambivalence. To give money ensured the success of the government program. Not to give involved some determined facing-away from private distress. There was no way out. The art of bad government was to sever the line between public policy and intimate feeling, the instinct for what was right. These days he left the matte to chance. If he had small change in his pocket, he gave it. If not, he gave nothing. He never handed out banknotes.
The girl was brown-skinned from sunny days on the street. She wore a grubby yellow cotton frock and her hair was severely cropped. Perhaps she had been deloused. As he distance closed he saw she was pretty, impish and freckled with a pointed chin. She was no more than twenty feet away when she ran forward and took from the pavement a lump of still glistening chewing gum. She popped it in her mouth and began to chew. The little head tilted back defiantly as she looked again in his direction.
Then she was before him, the standard-issue bowl held out before her. She had chosen him minutes ago, it was a trick they had. Appalled, he had reached into his back pocket for a five-pound note. She looked on with neutral expression as he set it down on top of the coins.
As soon as his hand was clear, the girl picked the note out, rolled it tight into her fist, and said, "Fuck you, mister." She was edging round him.
Stephen put his hand on the hard, narrow shoulder and gripped. "What was that you said?"
The girl turned and pulled away. The eyes had shrunk, the voice was reedy. "I said, Fank you, mister." She was out of reach when she added, "Rich creep!"
Stephen showed empty palms in mild rebuke. He smiled without parting his lips to convey his immunity to the insult. But the kid had resumed her steady, sleepwalker's step along the street. He watched her for a full minute before he lost her in the crowd. She did not glance back.
Posted November 9, 2009
This is my favourite McEwen book so far, and renowned English actor Nathaniel Parker (who has recorded many audio-books) gives one of his most moving readings in this recording. Both the novel and the reading are restrained, but not in that notorious British stiff-upper-lip way: there's plenty of emotion, but you have to be still enough to feel it. No, it's not exactly 'light entertainment', but I know I will listen to this several times over. Highly recommended.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 16, 2005
The book is about loss, from the sinking physical feeling in one's stomach when the horror sets in, to the eventual climb out of the abyss many years later, and not without scars. Although the subplot about his friend was distracting at times, and whether certain events were reality vs. imagination wasn't always clear (and maybe not meant to be) all in all it was a compelling story and written very well. The ending gave hope, which is what recovering from loss is all about.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 24, 2003
As i am still young when i first started reading the book i was quite confused, but as i read on i became more drawn into the book. The sense of time and the relationships developed in the book are very exciting. I am still readin this book but i definitely belive that it has been written very well!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 22, 2003
McEwan's novel 'The Child In Time' has created a lasting effect on me as one of his better books to date. The use of language, syntax and empathy literally breaches your emotional boundaries, meaning you actually lose the ability to put it down! An outstanding success, and one that I could personally relate to.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 7, 2000
'The Child in Time' tells the story of a man learning to cope with the loss of his young daughter. McEwan also shows how this one moment sends Stephen on a downward spiral into depression and the knock-on effect it has on his relationship with his wife Julie. The main themes in this title include grief, relationships and, as the title suggests, time, involving an interesting moment where Stephen is looking at his mother who is carrying his foetal self. Overall, this is a very good book which I enjoyed very much: Chapter 1 is VERY emotional but just keep reading.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 28, 2011
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