This is not to say that the book is bad: It’s a slim work of fiction (a novella, really) that focuses on a single relationship, between Edward and Florence. On Chesil Beach is the single most embarrassing thing I have ever read. But as I sat on a local hilltop turning the book’s final pages, all the blood drained from my body and ran, it seemed, into the grass below.
I bought it when it was first published in 2007, eager to while away a few hours with the reliable author of Saturday (2005), Enduring Love (1997), and Amsterdam (1998). If you asked me to choose the least adaptable novel of all time, I would pick Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach.
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