At one hundred pages, The Comfort of Strangers by Ian McEwan is a slender read but never a slight one. Its prose is delicate, as if each letter was oh-so-carefully considered by the author. This reflects the relationships depicted in the novel; between Colin and Mary, lovers who are at once overly-familiar with and strange to one another; and between Robert and Caroline, the unusual couple that Colin and Mary stumble upon while on holiday in an unnamed European city. I delight in reading Ian McEwan; I’ve come to suspect that we conceive of the world similarly, a conclusion based solely on writing style and the content of his novels. There are, of course, difficulties with the special regard I have for McEwan. Though he does often live up to this esteem (The Cement Garden), I am sometimes left angry and disappointed (Atonement). With The Comfort of Strangers, McEwan presents a deftly-written, perfectly-constructed story which touches upon the intimacies and unknowns within any relationships. But here — unfolding beautifully — there is something amiss that endangers the lazy and repetitious holiday of Colin and Mary. [Book 3/50]