Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?
Ian McewanIt is shaming sometimes how the body will not, or cannot, lie about emotions. Who, for decorumโs sake, has ever slowed his heart, or muted a blush?
Ian McewanWe knew so little about eachother. We lay mostly submerged, like ice floes with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white. Here was a rare sight below the waves, of a man's privacy and turmoil, of his dignity upended by the overpowering necessity of pure fantasy, pure thought, by the irreducible human element - Mind.
Ian Mcewan