Atonement

by Ian McEwan

Even writing out the she saids, the and thens, made her wince, and she felt foolish, appearing to know about the emotions of an imaginary being.

Was everyone else really as alive as she was?

The self-contained world she had drawn with clear and perfect lines had been defaced with the scribble of other minds, other needs; and time itself, so easily sectioned on paper into acts and scenes, was even now dribbling uncontrollably away.

Briony had lost her godly power of creation, but it was only at this moment of return that the loss became evident; part of a daydream’s enticement was the illusion that she was helpless before its logic: forced by international rivalry to compete at the highest level among the world’s finest and to accept the challenges that came with preeminence in her field—her field of nettle slashing—driven to push beyond her limits to assuage the roaring crowd, and to be the best, and, most importantly, unique. But of course, it had all been her—by her and about her—and now she was back in the world, not one she could make, but the one that had made her, and she felt herself shrinking under the early evening sky.

Was that really all there was in life, indoors or out? Wasn’t there somewhere else for people to go?

she didn’t forgive him, she simply gave up.

He was like a man with advanced TB pretending to have a cold.

All very well to write, She felt sad, or describe what a sad person might do, but what of sadness itself, how was that put across so it could be felt in all its lowering immediacy?

Attaining adulthood was all about the eager acceptance of such impediments.

But there was only one inevitable end, and there was nothing they could do but go toward it.

Not everything had a cause, and pretending otherwise was an interference in the workings of the world that was futile, and could even lead to grief. Some things were simply so.

How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.

He was gripped by the kind of anger that passes itself off as wonderment.

But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish.