Women authors in general are often criticized for working in the realm of the so-called “domestic novel,” as if the arena of home and love is not big enough a subject, as if there is something intellectually lacking in narratives of human relationships. There is still a prejudice among publishers (i.e. marketing departments) and review outlets that the “big idea” novels come from the Don DeLillos and Philip Roths of the world, and that a big idea can only be tackled in very long third-person, past tense novels that span decades or centuries. As a reader and writer, I’m pleased when I see a male author who tackles domesticity with insight and respect, as McEwan does in Saturday (not to mention in much earlier books like The Cement Garden and The Comfort of Strangers).

What a stroke of luck, that the woman he loves is also his wife.

I love this sentence because it is direct and honest and doesn’t shy away from a moment of true tenderness. Here our neurologist, while burdened by the terrors of the world around him, nonetheless perceives an important truth of his life: that he has had the extremely good fortune to be married to a woman whom, many years after their first meeting, he still loves.

This, I suppose, is what I admire about Saturday; in addition to the cleanness and accuracy of the prose, there is such attention to the personal–both in terms of the external and the internal–so the reader is able to feel that she knows Henry very well. In knowing him, we are able to empathize with him and to be interested enough follow him through this rather simple “day in the life” narrative. It brings to mind another day-in-the-life story (no, not Joyce!, although that one is a beauty)–Jim White’s beautiful novel Birdsong, which you may not have heard of, but which you should surely attempt to find on alibris or in your favorite indie store. It’s worth searching for!