Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Is there a 'natural' state to which children revert when there are no parents around to keep an eye on them, and if so, are we allowed to judge and intervene if that 'natural state' goes against society's ideas of what is natural and acceptable? That is the question raised (but not answered) in The Cement Garden, Ian McEwan's 1978 debut as a novelist. The 138-page novella is about four children who, following the deaths of their parents, decide to go on living together as if nothing had ever happened, so as not to be separated or put into an orphanage. Needless to say, this gives them rather more freedom than they're used to, and so they embark on some unusual paths...

Like many early McEwan stories, The Cement Garden is fascinating but not for the faint of heart. Those willing to immerse themselves in a bath of teenage lust, ennui, contrariness and cruelty will find it a gripping read; those who are easily put off by anything remotely twisted are likely to find it quite repulsive. Personally, I'm in the former camp. I can see why people would be disgusted by this book, but I found it quite mesmerising myself. In a weird way, it is both hyperrealistic and completely unrealistic, like a dark fairytale set in our own world but not completely part of it. Like the children it so vividly describes, it veers from rude and aloof to shockingly tender and intimate. The rude scenes are brilliantly honest and well-observed, while the intimate scenes (which are of an incestuous nature) are so hauntingly tender that they're actually quite beautiful and, well, understandable. So who are we to say that this particular kind of intimacy is wrong? It is, obviously, but in the strange universe McEwan creates here, it somehow feels right. That's a mark of genius, I think, even if it will leave conservative readers with a vile taste in their mouths. I doubt McEwan will ever write anything like this again, but as a jaw-dropping debut, it is quite unsurpassed, I think.