YOUR description of the experimental confirmation of Einstein’s theory of general relativity was wrong, one of Ian McEwan’s readers tells him. The reader refers to a passage in his book Enduring Love. McEwan isn’t too worried. “My authority was Steven Weinberg, the Nobel prize-winning physicist. I think I’ll just put them in touch with each other,” he says. Given McEwan’s penchant for using science in his novels, he’s accustomed to receiving letters from readers, some pointing out tiny slips but most offering “generous advice”. He’ll no doubt get a few more letters on his latest offering, Solar, especially as it deals with that thorny subject, climate change.
Solar also features a Nobel prize-winning physicist, although one not nearly as commendable as Weinberg. The novel is based around the central character’s attempt to develop a technique known as artificial photosynthesis. Just like natural photosynthesis, light is used to split water into hydrogen and oxygen, which is then somehow converted into virtually carbon-neutral electricity.
McEwan describes his protagonist, Michael Beard, as “a terrible liar and a deceitful thief”. With his best work behind him, Beard trades on a youthful flash of genius – but steals a post-doc’s idea on how to harvest energy from photons efficiently, which he then applies to the problem of artificial photosynthesis. In between sessions at the lab he also manages to moonlight as a successful womaniser and frame another man for murder.
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We’re sitting in McEwan’s elegant living room on brown leather sofas, an open fire crackling between us. I tell him it is one of the funniest novels of his I’ve read and he looks genuinely pleased. McEwan has famously said he hates comic novels so I ask him if he intended to write a comedy. “I like novels with funny stretches, but comic novels can be rather laborious. I think that, like writing a symphony, in a novel you can shift moods and tempos, allow yourself set pieces, but then claw back some level of seriousness. But there’s something funny about all really good writing; anything that seems deeply perceptive always has a little smile at its edge.”
McEwan is quick to say that he wasn’t picking up on the zeitgeist surrounding climate change; rather it was an issue he’s been interested in from the late nineties. Occasionally, he wondered how it might make its way into a novel: “I knew I had to be careful when writing a novel about climate change, it can be such a dull subject.” McEwan found his way in during a trip to Tempelfjorden in the Arctic in 2005. Many of McEwan’s experiences made it into the novel in amplified form – rather than a polar bear chasing him on his faltering Skidoo, McEwan merely saw a footprint. He was preoccupied by the thought of having to urinate at -40 °C but was never desperate enough to risk it, as Beard does, only to have his penis freeze to his zipper.
As in so many of his books the science is a backdrop for exploring human nature. “As humans, climate change is uniquely difficult for us, partly because we’re not used to thinking of long timescales, partly because it’s not in our nature to perform favours for people that aren’t born yet and partly because we have this double edge to our nature – ferociously clever and ingenious, which is what’s got us into this mess, but also very tribal,” he explains.
“Climate change is difficult because it’s not in our nature to perform favours for people that aren’t born yet”
From evolutionary biology in Enduring Love to neurosurgery in Saturday, science has played a prominent role in some of McEwan’s later novels despite his official science education ending with high-school (A level)mathematics, which he finished in his spare time. He wanted to do physics as well but his school was too tiny to accommodate it and English. Another one of McEwan’s frequently quoted phrases is that most novels are boring and I wonder whether science is a way to help stave off the boredom of his own plots. He’s surprisingly forthcoming: “Absolutely. I think one of the reasons I find a lot of novels boring is that they’re only about the emotions; they don’t have enough muscular intelligence. I like novels that have got both. A good number of novels are just so timid, intellectually.”
McEwan says he’s never abandoned a plot because the science became too impenetrable. “I work my way so slowly into a novel that I only really start to get fully immersed when I know it’s the right thing.” For McEwan, full immersion means plenty of research. For Saturday he famously shadowed a neurosurgeon, and for Solar, he read up on Einstein’s theory of relativity and had Graeme Mitchison from the check his physics and come up with the details of the “Beard-Einstein Conflation” which won Beard his prize.
So what will come next once he’s shaken Solar out of his system? First, he’ll write a non-science-themed novel, and then: “I think there’s something unexplored, from my point of view, about chemistry. The 19th century was the great time for chemistry but chemists have rather faded from our sense of science. I think they’ll be back. You’re frowning because you’re a physicist,” he tells me.
I’m frowning because as a journalist I know it’s difficult to make chemistry captivating. “And the very word is so smelly, isn’t it? As I say the word, I can smell the Bunsen burners and rubber tubes of the chemistry labs,” he muses aloud. “Even after the summer holidays, stepping into the chemistry lab, the smell would still be there and my heart would sink. There’s definitely something there.” If ever there’s a man to make those smelly labs captivating, it’s Ian McEwan.
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Ian McEwan won the Somerset Maugham Award for his first work, a collection of short stories, published in 1975, and the Man Booker Prize for his novel Amsterdam
- For readers’ questions to Ian McEwan and an essay on Solar by Graeme Mitchison see