Reading Ian McEwan’s novel The Comfort of Strangers felt a little like reading a Henry James novel. Maybe it’s something about the setting (a vacation in Venice) or the characters (a pair of somewhat dispassionate English lovers). I’m not sure.
I think that I first read McEwan (often referred to as a writer’s writer) with the publication of Amsterdam. After reading that one, I went back to some of his earlier work, and I especially enjoyed Enduring Love. I haven’t picked up any of his recent novels, but when I ran across a copy of The Comfort of Strangers (first published in 1981) in one of my stacks, I looked forward to another visit with an old friend.
Tired of their lives and of each other, Colin and Mary find themselves on a restless trip to Venice. Lost in the twisting streets of the city on a dark night, they meet Robert, who escorts them to a seedy basement bar and regales them with the story of his life. Over the next several days—almost by accident and almost with realizing it—they are drawn into his sinister life.
This isn’t a fast-paced suspense novel. Instead, it’s a novel of atmosphere and character—and McEwan puts the reader right there.


