El placer del viajero

Por Ian McEwan

El placer del viajero transcurre en Venecia y, como escribió Frank Kermode, las novelas situadas en esa ciudad, por alguna razón, tienden a ser siniestras, como si en ella hubiera algo que confundiera las expectativas de la decencia. En esta historia de cuatro personajes, Colin y Mary, amantes desde hace varios años, de posición bastante acomodada, pasan sus vacaciones en esta ciudad anónima, haciendo el obligado turismo y sintiendo ese estado de disociación que a menudo se experimenta en las ciudades ajenas. Tras conocer a un misterioso italiano, casado con una canadiense, se ven progresivamente envueltos en una relación con am-bos. Los encuentros son agradables, casuales... pero hay en el aire algo amenazador, sofocante, inexplicable. Colin y Mary, súbitamente aislados y vulnerables, son arrastrados hacia lo desconocido, conducidos a acciones y sentimientos más allá de su control. McEwan ha afilado su prosa, admirablemente lacónica, y, con la habilidad de un experto torturador, esparce ocasionales migajas de confort, cuando la tensión resulta intolerable, para hurtarlas de inmediato, en beneficio del horror.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 22 ene 2020
• ISBN: 9788433941107

Ian McEwan

Ian McEwan (Aldershot, Reino Unido, 1948) se licenció en Literatura Inglesa en la Universidad de Sussex y es uno de los miembros más destacados de su muy brillante generación. En Anagrama se han publicado sus dos libros de relatos, Primer amor, últimos ritos (Premio Somerset Maugham) y Entre las sábanas, las novelas El placer del viajero, Niños en el tiempo (Premio Whitbread y Premio Fémina), El inocente, Los perros negros, Amor perdurable, Amsterdam (Premio Booker), Expiación (que ha obtenido, entre otros premios, el WH Smith Literary Award, el People’s Booker y el Commonwealth Eurasia), Sábado (Premio James Tait Black), En las nubes, Chesil Beach (National Book Award), Solar (Premio Wodehouse), Operación Dulce, La ley del menor, Cáscara de nuez, Máquinas como yo, La cucaracha y Lecciones y el breve ensayo El espacio de la imaginación. McEwan ha sido galardonado con el Premio Shakespeare. Foto © Maria Teresa Slanzi.

Vista previa del libro

Índice

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A Penny Allen

cómo habitamos en dos mundos las hijas y las madres

en el reino de los hijos

ADRIENNE RICH

Los viajes son una brutalidad. Le obligan a uno a confiar en extraños y a perder de vista toda la comodidad familiar de la casa y de los amigos. Se está en continuo desequilibrio. Nada le pertenece a uno salvo las cosas esenciales: el aire, el descanso, los sueños, el mar, el cielo, y todo tiende hacia lo eterno o a lo que imaginamos de la eternidad.

CESARE PAVESE

UNO

Cada tarde, cuando la ciudad empezaba a bullir más allá de los postigos verde oscuro de las ventanas de su hotel, Colin y Mary se despertaban por el rítmico golpeteo de las herramientas contra las barcazas de hierro amarradas al pontón del café del hotel. Por la mañana, aquellos cascos picados de herrumbre, sin carga visible ni medios de propulsión, solían desaparecer; volvían hacia el final de la jornada, y las tripulaciones se afanaban inexplicablemente con mazos y cortafríos. Entonces, bajo el bochornoso calor de las últimas horas de la tarde, era cuando los parroquianos empezaban a reunirse en el pontón para tomar un helado en las mesas de hojalata y sus voces también invadían las sombras de la habitación, con risas y discusiones que inundaban a oleadas los breves silencios entre cada golpe penetrante de martillos. Se despertaban a la vez, o eso les parecía, y seguían tumbados sin moverse en sus camas individuales. Por razones que ya no podían determinar con claridad, Colin y Mary no se hablaban. Dos moscas giraban perezosas en torno a la lámpara del techo; por el pasillo, una llave giró en una cerradura y unos pasos avanzaron y retrocedieron. Por fin, Colin se levantó, entornó los postigos y fue al baño a darse una ducha. Aún absorta en la secuela de sus sueños, Mary se dio la vuelta mientras Colin pasaba, y miró fijamente a la pared. En la habitación de al lado, el goteo continuo del agua producía un sonido apacible, y Mary cerró los ojos de nuevo.

Cada noche, en la hora que solían pasar en el balcón antes de salir a buscar un restaurante, escuchaban pacientemente los sueños del otro a cambio del placer de narrar los suyos con detalle. Tal como explicaba Colin, sus sueños eran de los que alaban los psicoanalistas, de volar, de dientes que se le caían, de aparecer desnudo ante un desconocido sentado. Para Mary, el colchón duro, el calor desacostumbrado, la ciudad apenas explorada se unían para desatar en su reposo un torbellino de sueños virulentos y ruidosos que, según se quejaba ella, la aturdían durante las horas de vigilia; y las antiguas y bellas iglesias, los retablos, los puentes de piedra sobre los canales se sucedían tediosamente en su retina, como en una pantalla lejana. La mayoría de las veces soñaba con sus hijos: estaban en peligro y ella se encontraba incapacitada o demasiado aturdida para ayudarlos. Su propia infancia se confundía con la de ellos. Su hijo y su hija eran contemporáneos suyos, y la asustaban con sus preguntas insistentes. ¿Por qué te has marchado sin nosotros? ¿Cuándo vuelves? ¿Irás a recogernos al tren? No, no, trataba ella de explicarles, sois vosotros quienes debéis ir a buscarme a mí. Le contó a Colin un sueño en el que sus hijos se habían metido en la cama con ella, uno a cada lado, y se habían pasado la noche peleándose sobre su cuerpo dormido: «Sí, lo hice. No, no lo has hecho. Ya te lo dije. No me lo dijiste...»; hasta que se despertó agotada, con las manos fuertemente apretadas contra las orejas. O bien, refería ella, su exmarido la llevaba a un rincón y empezaba a explicarle con paciencia, tal como hizo una vez, cómo se manejaba su costosa máquina de fotografiar japonesa, examinando sus complicados detalles en cada paso. Al cabo de muchas horas Mary empezaba a suspirar y a gemir, suplicándole que lo dejara, pero nada podía interrumpir la implacable monotonía de la explicación.

La ventana del baño daba a un patio, que a esa hora también cobraba vida con los ruidos de las habitaciones contiguas y de la cocina del hotel. En el momento en que Colin cerró el grifo, al otro lado del patio empezó un hombre a cantar bajo la ducha, como todas las tardes, el dúo de La flauta mágica. Con una voz que se oía por encima del estrépito torrencial del agua, del chapoteo y de las palmadas sonoras contra el cuerpo bien enjabonado, aquel individuo cantaba con el total abandono de quien cree que nadie lo escucha, dando berridos, cambiando la voz en las notas altas, tarareando las palabras olvidadas, vociferando las partes orquestales. «Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann, Together make a godly span.»¹ Cuando se cerró la ducha, el canto se redujo a un silbido.

Colin se quedó frente al espejo, escuchando, y sin ninguna razón especial empezó a afeitarse por segunda vez en aquel día. Desde su llegada, habían establecido un ordenado ceremonial de reposo, precedido en una sola ocasión de relaciones sexuales, y ahora llegaba el intermedio ensimismado y sereno durante el cual se acicalaban cuidadosamente antes de dar un paseo por la ciudad a la hora de la cena. Se echaban por el cuerpo colonias y sales caras, libres de impuestos, elegían la ropa meticulosamente y sin consultarse, como si entre los miles de personas con quienes pronto se reunirían, alguien los esperase en alguna parte con profundo interés por su aspecto. Mientras Mary hacía yoga en el suelo del dormitorio, Colin solía liar un cigarrillo de marihuana que fumaban en el balcón y que intensificaba el momento delicioso en que salían del vestíbulo del hotel al aire suave de la noche.

Cuando estaban fuera iba una doncella, y no solo por las mañanas, a hacer las camas y a cambiar las sábanas si lo juzgaba necesario. No acostumbrados a la vida de hotel, se encontraban inhibidos ante esa intimidad con una extraña a la que rara vez veían. La doncella retiraba los pañuelos de papel usados, alineaba los zapatos dentro del armario en una fila ordenada, doblaba la ropa sucia en un pulcro montón sobre una silla y colocaba las monedas sueltas en pequeñas pilas encima de la mesilla de noche. Pero pronto llegaron a depender de ella, volviéndose perezosos con sus pertenencias. Se hicieron incapaces de ocuparse el uno del otro y, con aquel calor, se sentían sin fuerzas para ahuecar las almohadas o para agacharse a recoger una toalla caída. Al mismo tiempo, toleraban menos el desorden. Un día volvieron a última hora de la mañana para encontrar la habitación tal como la habían dejado, sencillamente inhabitable, y no tuvieron más remedio que marcharse otra vez y esperar a que la arreglaran.

Las horas que precedían a la siesta también seguían una pauta bien definida, aunque eran menos previsibles. Era pleno verano y la ciudad rebosaba de visitantes. Colin y Mary salían cada mañana después de desayunar provistos de dinero, de mapas y de gafas de sol y se unían a la multitud que bullía sobre los puentes de los canales o pululaba por las calles estrechas. Obedientemente cumplían los muchos deberes turísticos que imponía la ciudad, visitando las iglesias principales y las de menos importancia, los museos y palacios, todos rebosantes de tesoros. En las calles de los comercios pasaban el rato delante de los escaparates, hablando de regalos que podrían comprar. Hasta el momento, aún no habían entrado en ninguna tienda. Pese a los mapas se perdían con frecuencia, y solían pasarse alrededor de una hora dando vueltas y regresando al punto de partida, mientras consultaban la posición del sol (una habilidad de Colin), para encontrarse cerca de una indicación familiar y por una dirección inesperada, y seguir perdidos. Cuando la marcha se hacía especialmente dura y el calor más opresivo que de costumbre, con ironía se recordaban el uno al otro que estaban «de vacaciones». Pasaban muchas horas buscando restaurantes «ideales» o encontrando de nuevo el camino del de dos días antes. A menudo los restaurantes ideales estaban llenos o, si ya pasaban de las nueve de la noche, a punto de cerrar; si se topaban con uno que no lo estaba, a veces entraban a comer mucho antes de tener hambre.

Si hubieran estado solos, tal vez habrían explorado la ciudad, cada uno por su cuenta, siguiendo su capricho, sin depender de un destino fijo, y de esa manera habrían disfrutado sin hacer caso de si se perdían o no. Allí había muchas maravillas, solo se necesitaba estar atento y esperar. Pero se conocían el uno al otro tanto como a sí mismos, y su intimidad, de manera muy semejante a un gran número de maletas, estaba sujeta a múltiples preocupaciones; juntos se movían con lentitud, torpemente, creándose penosos compromisos, entregándose a rebuscados cambios de humor, arreglando diferencias, salvando distancias. Individualmente no se irritaban con facilidad; pero una vez juntos lograban ofenderse de forma sorprendente e inaudita; entonces, el ofensor (eso había sucedido una o dos veces desde que llegaron) se enfadaba por las muestras de susceptibilidad empalagosa que el otro daba, y así continuaban explorando en silencio los pasajes sinuosos y las plazas súbitas, hasta que la ciudad empezaba a eclipsarse mientras ellos se recluían con más fuerza en su presencia mutua.

Terminados sus ejercicios de yoga, Mary se incorporó y, tras estudiar con cuidado su ropa interior, empezó a vestirse. A través de los postigos entreabiertos vio a Colin en el balcón. Todo vestido de blanco, estaba tumbado en la hamaca de plástico y aluminio, balanceando la mano cerca del suelo. Aspiró, echó la cabeza atrás, contuvo el aliento y lanzó humo entre los tiestos de geranios que cubrían el antepecho del balcón. Mary lo amaba, aunque no en aquel preciso momento. Se puso una blusa de seda y una falda blanca de algodón y, al sentarse en el borde de la cama para abrocharse las sandalias, cogió de la mesilla de noche una guía turística. Según las fotografías, en otras partes del país había praderas, montañas, playas desiertas, un camino que serpenteaba por un bosque hasta llegar a un lago. Aquí, en su único mes libre del año, la obligación era ir a museos y restaurantes. Cuando oyó crujir la hamaca de Colin, se dirigió al tocador y empezó a cepillarse el pelo con pasadas cortas y vigorosas.

Colin le llevó el porro a la habitación y ella lo rechazó sin volverse, apresurándose a murmurar: «No, gracias.» Colin se quedó detrás de ella, mirándola fijamente en el espejo, tratando de encontrar sus ojos. Pero ella se miraba a sí misma sin parpadear, y siguió cepillándose el pelo. Colin le pasó un dedo por el contorno del hombro. Más pronto o más tarde, el silencio tendría que romperse. Se dio la vuelta para marcharse, pero cambió de opinión. Carraspeó y apoyó la mano con firmeza en el hombro de Mary. Fuera, se podía contemplar el comienzo del crepúsculo; dentro, hacía falta entablar negociaciones. Su indecisión se debía enteramente a la droga, y era de esas que se muerden la cola, asegurándole que, si ahora se alejaba de ella, después de tocarla, se enfadaría; al menos, era de suponer... Pero por otro lado seguía cepillándose

Comentarios para El placer del viajero

[icolford · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

In this brief novel (published in 1981 when the author was 33), a British couple, Colin and Mary, are on holiday in an unnamed seaside town that bears more than a passing resemblance to Venice. Their relationship is mutually caring, but also one of powerful erotic allure and private intimacy. Both are physically attractive and know it, and Colin in particular spends an inordinate amount of time grooming. McEwan’s omniscient narrator paints a picture of two people so profoundly intertwined in almost every aspect of their waking lives that a cloistered exclusivity has evolved between them, as if they are trying to hold themselves aloof from the rest of humanity. They are preternaturally sensitive to one another’s needs and desires, and—once made aware—are more than willing to cater to those needs and desires. And yet when they are together an odd tension seems to exist between them. Mary is distracted: she has left her two children from a previous marriage in England and keeps in touch with them sporadically by phone. And both Colin and Mary at times seem bored and frustrated, with each other and their holiday, and occasionally assert their independent will by acting contrary to the other’s wishes. One day they get lost while following the town’s canals and traversing the narrow, winding pathways. Thirsty and tired, they allow an insistent stranger named Robert to lead them to a bar, where he regales them with stories of his personal history. Later, their resistance weakened, they go with Robert to his villa, where they meet his wife, Caroline, who has mobility issues and appears to suffer from some physical injury or deformity. At this point the story veers from the mesmerizing and dreamlike pseudo-reality that McEwan has so carefully constructed into a world of obsession and depravity. Robert and Caroline are not what they seem, and once their intentions become clear, it’s too late for Colin and Mary to save themselves or each other. The story ends in the bewildering aftermath of violence, with blood staining the floor and a stunned Mary facing a series of painful, practical realities. The story is briskly told and gripping, if not entirely convincing. McEwan’s prose throughout is richly atmospheric. The narrative is psychologically probing and repeatedly demonstrates McEwan’s skill at evoking states of mind through setting and a character’s observation of physical detail. A haunting and memorable work that reflects McEwan’s preoccupation with deviant behaviours at this early stage of his career.

[copyedit52 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A well-written but grotesque novella

[jonfaith · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

What tended to happen, to Colin and Mary at least, was that subjects were not explored so much as defensively reiterated, or forced into elaborate irrelevancies, and suffused with irritability.

This slim weapon is a foggy retreat into the nuptual neuroses during the holiday abroad. All baggage isn't declared at Customs. The soul is a mule through Passport Control. Regret and doubt are the rogue's liquidity, the same for the spouse. Lifting Blanche's best line will ultimately avail with kinky proposals and a nightlight stilleto. Beware.

[chrisblocker · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Every time I approach an Ian McEwan review—all but the first time, I guess—I feel some dread. McEwan is an author who garners such strong opinions, good and bad. Some think he is a hack writer, overly elaborate with his prose and plots, offensive to say the least. Others think he has incredible talent, that his stories brim with the kind of details that bring them to life. There's probably truth in both arguments, though in the end they're just opinions. Whatever the general views of McEwan and his stories, reviews of McEwan's work can lead to excessive raising of the eyebrows, eye rolling, and unfriending (though I could be exaggerating).I throw myself in with those enamored with McEwan. That's not to say I love everything he's written, but I do find myself always thoroughly entertained. Having read some of McEwan's most popular and highly acclaimed works, I've made it a point to read the author's earliest books and work my way through his career. If you've read my reviews of McEwan's first two books, First Love, Last Rites or The Cement Garden, you probably know that old McEwan had a distinctly macabre style once upon a time. In fact, his earliest works remind me considerably of the kinds of stories Stephen King might have written.The Comfort of Strangers, McEwan's second novel, continues this King comparison, but also shows a break from it. It's not as dark as his earlier efforts, but depravity is still present. The primary difference is that The Comfort of Strangers shows more of McEwan's elaborate style. There was a hint of the literary in McEwan's first books, but here it's strong. The descriptions in The Comfort of Strangers really evoke the setting, pulling the reader in. Even when the story began to disappoint, which it did for me, I wanted to keep reading. Even when I myself began to roll my eyes and recognize the signature overwrought plot, I was so engaged that I couldn't pull away. McEwan is guilty in this one of forcing the characters into the story. It is evident that they have no other path than the one the author makes for them. There's not even an illusion that they have free will. So, in the end, I was disappointed with this story, but there was never a moment I wasn't entertained. And that's something.

[stef7sa-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Very fine writing as always by McEwan and although the plot isn't that spectacular, even predictable, it is the subtle way the author weaves in the motives and reasons of it that holds the tension of the story till the end.

[caanderson-1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Loved it! Great suspense, story, and characters.

[ratastrophe · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

An emotionally stirring book, but not one in which McEwan does his usual fine job of exploring his characters deeply. Instead, this book is carried by its mood and tone. While the book's frame and environment are well-constructed, the characters are not.

[edwinbcn · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I have read nearly all of Ian McEwan's novels, this one being an early, short one. Reading this elegant, somewhat stilted novel, I wondered how much later readers would understand of the atmosphere. In my view, the reader should have a good grasp of the 1970s to understand what is going on, and why this story seems plausible. The novel itself provides very little description.The comfort of strangers is a fine novel, full of languid descriptions of Venice. A married couple, somewhat wearied in their relationship, make acquaintance with a handsome, apparently very sympathetic man. At the end of the novel, the story works out in a gruesome twist, typical of McEwan's novels.This novel would be a very good novel to start reading Ian McEwan, or, as in my case savour the taste of his early works. Very nice.

[ariadna73_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

May 15: This is a story about an unmarried couple that goes somewhere for vacation. All the environment feels like they love each other, but something wrong is happening.June 8: Now the story is turning a little bit more interesting, but also a little bit more nasty. All those descriptions about a little boy suffering from his mean sisters, and the tortures he must face.. It'll be difficult to forget.June 26. I don't know why, but this book remembered me another one I read, written by Paul Bowles. The translation of that book's title is something like "hot land". I've never liked stories about people traveling to some exotic places, and having terrible adventures that lead them to death. This novel is exactly like that. I was terribly bored in the beginning, and upset in the end. This is a very famous writer, and maybe people would like his writing, but I don't.

[marek2009_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I read this after The Daydreamer, as I realised I haven't read any McEwan in a while. the concept behind this is very interesting, but its his 2nd novel, & McEwan is primarily a stlyist, which took time to mature. This cheese is not fedit enough.

[rmariem_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Meta-creepy.

[jhedlund_7 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I really struggled with the rating on this book. On the one hand, I didn't like the story at all. On the other, the author didn't intend for readers to like the story and therefore was very effective. The writing is pure brilliance, without a doubt. However, I could have lived without the images that will now haunt the rest of my days for having read this book. If I were rating the book on enjoyment alone, the rating would be at least one star fewer. In the end, McEwan's mastery of the craft of writing won out for me, and I had to give it four stars. This is quite a compliment of McEwan's artistry, since writing seldom trumps enjoyment in my rating and reviewing.

[booksbooks11 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I don't think I can really rate this a 5 for at least another year. In a year will this novel still be creeping around under my skin, invading my thoughts and have me wondering why? I don't know for sure but I suspect it will. If you want to find the essence of suspense it's somewhere hidden in this very short but intense book.

[seriousgrace · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Colin and Mary are unmarried, unhappy lovers on vacation. Bored with each other and frustrated with their foreign holiday destination (probably Venice or Rome), they are constantly having to remind each other and themselves they are on holiday and are supposed to be relaxing and enjoying themselves. Their disdain for each other annoyed me at times. For the couple getting lost in the ancient, winding, narrow streets wasn't supposed to be a problem because they have nowhere specific to be. Colin and Mary go on like this until suddenly, the story changes gears after a native enters their bored bubble. That chance meeting changes the course of their lives forever. It is a psychological, violent, erotic second half to the book, full of sex and selfishness. From the moment, Robert, the charismatic stranger, comes into the picture nothing seems normal again.

[hhhiryuu · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I have read a number of McEwan's books, starting with the more recent ones and working backward, and I have to say I would recommend one or several of the later ones over The Comfort of Strangers. McEwan's strength for me is always his ability to put you so deeply into the innermost thoughts of his characters that you are completely enraptured, plus his discerning observations about sex and relationships. All those elements are present in The Comfort of Strangers, plus a ominous, menacing feeling that permeates the short book. But his later books revisit many of the same themes, and explore them more adroitly and thoroughly: sexual dysfunction in On Chesil Beach, relationship dysfunction in The Child in Time, foreboding menace in Saturday. Also, the main characters in this work are well drawn, but often unquestioning of situations in a way I found unbelievable, which kept knocking me out of the immersion I usual enjoy so much with McEwan's books. However, in the end, it's a short, well-written read, and it will seriously creep you out, so I do recommend it.

[rcorfield_2 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I think some of the other reviews here have been a little harsh on this book. One of Ian McEwan's strengths is his descriptive powers and this book contains powerful evocations of mood, atmosphere and place; in this case Venice. He builds and releases tension well but you get a strong feeling of foreboding throughout the book.Sometimes McEwan has a problem with the endings of his books (see Amsterdam), but I didn't think that was the case here. A slim volume and a quick read, but not one I'll forget in a hurry.

[lauralkeet · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Colin and Mary are on an extended holiday in Venice. They spend long, lazy days idling in their hotel or wandering the streets, often getting lost. Late one evening, out in search of a restaurant, they meet a man named Robert who takes them to a nearby bar and, later, to his home. Robert is overly friendly and forward, but Colin and Mary are drawn to him in spite of their better judgement. Their time with Robert is inexplicably arousing, so much so that they spend the next few days sequestered in their hotel room. When they emerge they find themselves unconsciously drawn to Robert again. And things get really creepy and evil ... as if they weren't already.Ian McEwan has written an expertly crafted thriller; I was riveted from the first few pages. As McEwan drove relentlessly toward the story's almost inevitable conclusion, I was actually relieved that the book was only 125 pages -- the suspense and intensity would have been difficult for me had it been longer. I had picked this book up quite by accident, in need of a short read while waiting for library books. I was very pleasantly surprised by its quality & punch.

[lman_45 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I have seen The Comfort of Strangers, fittingly, described as a ‘long short story’ - yet, such a minimalist amount of words evoked a plethora of confused, mixed emotions within me; upon finishing I was left with quite a hollow feeling, along with a strange sense of incredulity.The story begins in a non-descript hotel room. In a seven-year relationship, defined by no permanent commitment, Mary and Colin are on holiday, and succumbing to a jaded sensitivity – to the surroundings and to each other. Their lack-lustre routine is disrupted one night when, venturing out much later than usual, and becoming totally lost in baffling foreign enclaves, they are aided by a persistent local, Robert. This outwardly innocuous chance encounter, plus the subsequent interactions with Robert and later, his inscrutable wife, Caroline, trigger a profound reversal in Mary and Colin; completely renewing their immediate rapport, intimacy and love, while leading, inevitably, to a devastating conclusion. And from the very beginning Ian McEwan, elegantly and masterfully, weaves into the narrative an oppressive, foreboding mood, with the utter anonymity of it all. The sounds and senses of the city, it could be any city by the sea, for the reader is never allowed full recognition of the exact identity and must continually guess. Mary and Colin, their background is a mystery, they could be any couple, but remain an enigma despite many intimate revelations. The somewhat irritating inability of the pair to communicate with the locals, despite obvious intelligence and lengthy passages of personal conversations; the purposeful omission of other individuals, and the contrived isolation, from an underlying, intense desire by Mary and Colin to distance themselves from everyone; all of this artfully insinuates an ominous, sinister atmosphere into the story. And this obscurity, this ambiguity, the necessity for the reader to constantly speculate, complements cleverly with the double entendre in the title of this tale.I have to agree absolutely with the blurb on my copy: this is “an exquisite miniature Gothic”; a peculiar but irresistible read. As I sat, numb, horrified and, as mentioned, slightly leery, after reading the last page I heard a news bulletin on my radio detailing a recent unpleasant international incident, and had to smile to myself… for, I realised, though this story in many ways beggars belief, the truth is often much stranger than any work of fiction; even one, especially one, such as this.

[tigerlms · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Tourists on holiday meet a couple and spend some time with them; they are invited back and despite the akwardness of the offer, they somehow wind up back with them with disastrous consequences. A harrowing novel with a heavy dose of irony in the title, McEwan shows off his literary abilities in this early novel. It's not one I recommend often because of its nature, but it's certainly a story that stays with you long after you turn the last page.

[suesbooks · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This writing was amazing; one of few books that really is impossible to put down, even though some credibility had to be suspended. Very upsetting.

[rozmarins · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

It`s Ian Mcewan`s second novel, written in 1981. Read this book in February as additional book to my TBR list. In one word - disgusting. It`s the first feeling after I closed this book. BUT! It doesn`t mean that I didn`t like Comfort of Strangers. There is something tempting in it. Maybe it`s slow and gentle atmosphere of Venice, maybe it`s that scary feeling (it`s too good to be true...) in the air almost till the end of the book, when Robert and his wife shows their real faces. (full review rozmarins.blogspot.com)

[scatterbrainbucket · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Who would of thought a book about incest and family death could be so steamy and romantic! yes this is better than the movie.