“A Duet”
by Ian McEwan
from the August 8, 2022 issue of The New Yorker
It’s been a busy week, so I’m posting this late. I’m sure some of you won’t mind too much, because this is an excerpt and not its own piece of short fiction. “A Duet” is a piece of Ian McEwan’s forthcoming Lessons, which will be out in about a month. I have an advanced copy, but I haven’t started it yet; I like McEwan in general, so I’ll be giving it a go. In the meantime, we have this to get us interested!
Here is the first bit of “A Duet”:
Berners, like most schools, was held together by a hierarchy of privileges, infinitesimally graded and slowly bestowed over the years. It made the older boys conservative guardians of the existing order, jealous of the rights they had earned with such patience. Why bestow new-fashioned favors on the youngest when they themselves had tolerated privations to earn the perks of greater maturity? It was a long, hard course. The youngest, the first- and second-years, were the paupers and had nothing at all. Third formers were allowed long trousers and a tie with diagonal, rather than horizontal, stripes. The fourth-years had their own common room. The fifth exchanged their gray shirts for drip-dry white, which they scrubbed in the showers and draped on plastic hangers. They also had a superior blue tie.
I hope you’re all doing well as we get started with another month!
Just have to say the detail in this story is exemplary. How to continually write perfect simple sentences that convey so much with so few words. Specific words are so carefully chosen like a rifleman repeatedly hitting the bullseye. And the theme of the story seems so hot; practically incendiary way beyond usual boundaries. Yet it is so routine as so very precisely presented.
It is so British with the female teacher so much in command of the situation commandeering all the fastidious details. The actual denouement of the encounter is so politely brief which only further emphasizes disparity between what it really is versus the very high degree of overimportance attached to it.
This story brilliantly presents tension between opposites; experience versus inexperience parallel to the music of Mozart with its always brilliant counterpoint of complex bass and treble themes interacting with one another up and down the scale.
The sex is counter opposed as a possible quick theft of brief physical satisfaction by both which might mimic or minimize the much more complex expression of intense admiration that represents the ironclad attachment of a strong enduring relationship in its beginning or a marriage.
There is also the juxtaposition of what he got out of it versus what she took from it. At the end, he suspects he may have been used looking back on the whole situation after 30 years. There is the slight hint of nothing romantically significant ever occurring in the protagonist’s life thereafter because of the absence of it being mentioned at all or even slightly.
The other great pairing of duet structure is the extreme sexual metaphor of nuclear war where the “climax” is fully reached when everyone’s dead against much less meaningful though repeated “quickie” coitus wherein the partners survive to return going about the more boring usual activities of life.
I think this it is an almost perfect short story yet skillfully lifted out of what must be a really great novel. It is particularly interesting that she sort of seemingly “pays” him for taking care of her physically as he helps her keep house and neaten things up. The supposition here is that she needs him more than he needs her but one wonders whether her sense of independence or his has somewhat been permanently compromised.
She has never acquired a husband or lover for which he is a temporary stand in and he is so young and unknowing as to how to realize a more level playing field in a lasting relationship with a woman that is more or most fulfilling for both.
I guess the biggest “lesson” of this story is that established mere usual sexual competence is not really any guarantee in the pursuit of true bliss or happiness with another.
I would like to see amcomments on the story by a couple of women readers.
I agree this is an excerpt that doesn’t really seem like one. Except, it has one little hook–the last paragraph makes you want to read the rest of the book to see what effects his experience with the piano teacher has had. Is this not perhaps a very clever marketing strategy?
I agree about the quality of the story. There’s an assurance and clarity here that shows a very confident author at work.
I would also be curious about female perspectives.
The other thought is could this be palatable these days with the genders reversed?
Many made that same comment about P.T. Anderson’s film “Licorice Pizza.”
This was a mundane and somewhat boring, if well-written story until the offensive ending:
“. . .he had been cheated of something. The world would go on, he would remain unvaporized. He needn’t have done a thing.”
He had been CHEATED? Of what exactly? How had he been “damaged” and “derailed”? He got the sexual instruction and experience he wanted plus a good meal, she got a yard cleanup. Transactional. Both sides apparently satisfied. If the writer had a different point to make he didn’t make it to me.
A secondary offensive point, our hero instinctively attempted the universal practice of leaving as soon as his goal was accomplished, and felt irritated when he could not:
“He suspected that he had brushed against a fundamental law of the universe: such ecstasy must compromise his freedom. That was its price.”
So, McEwan is advocating “Slam-bam-thank-you ma’am” as a sexual principle? Gross. McEwan seems like one of several male writers whose sexual attitude becomes corroded when they get old.
Miriam is the predator. When young people get initiated into sex early it impacts their life forever.
Research and my personal experience as an educator supports this thesis.
I want to read the novel to see how the story plays out. I like all his work.
Totally agree with Rosalind. Miriam can’t get sexual gratification from a man her own age or level of experience. Maybe because a younger man is easier to control. A young man doesn’t really know what he wants besides what the other males talk about. He could have decided that all women are just like Miriam and didn’t maybe want to be under a woman’s thumb in marriage or as a lover. Control works both ways and can be as damaging for a guy as it can be for a woman. This is very interesting because it turns a familiar idea of a young man benefiting from early “lessons” versus how they can possibly be damaging. Yes. That certainly gives a good reason for reading the book to find out the whole story or how it possibly fits in with the other “lessons”.
ok, i’m a woman.that’s part of my experience. the rest is my familiarity with Brit boys’ schools so can comment on the brilliant accuracy of that hierarchical representation that also informs Roland’s experience . . most telling point for me : Roland’s fantasy “…woman of his daydreams, who did as he made her do, which was to deprive him of his will and make him do as she wished.” eager to see how McEwan plays that out. Boy, other writers pale before this mastery. Tea and Sympathy anyone? this is an old trope reimagined. nice touch: Miriam Cornell is on the pill.
McEwan is a great writer and maybe I’m nitpicking, but I think he’s overusing the transition word “then” in the sequence below that I’ve quoted. It seems a little lazy. Maybe transition through description instead, or better yet, lose the word “then” altogether.
“A couple of minutes later, she came back with glasses of orange juice, made from actual crushed oranges, a novel taste. By then, he was standing uncertainly by the low table, wondering if he was now expected to leave. He would not have minded. They drank in silence. Then she put her glass down and did something that almost caused him to faint. He had to steady himself against the arm of a sofa. She went to the front door, knelt, and sank the heavy door bolt into the stone floor. Then she came back and took his hand.”
On this platform, Alice Munro is considered a god and I don’t disagree necessarily, but I’ve noticed similarly, many times in analyses here where, when she has sentences in her oeuvre that are awkward, disjointed, and confusing to read, which she does, they are rarely, if ever, noted.
I appreciate your comment, Johnny, and you’re not wrong about calling out problematic writing. I think for the most part that is just not what I get hung up on and not what I even have on my mind when I’m writing about something by, say, Alice Munro. I don’t feel it’s important to what I get out of it to point out some issues with certain sentences or the like. Is that to provide balance? Again, it’s not wrong; it’s just not something I’d even think to note unless it got in my way.
Also, I might not be sensitive to some of it. I’m not sure I’ve ever really noticed something in Munro’s writing that made me think, boy, she really botched that sentence, or even, boy, if only she’d limited her use of that word. Taking the example above from McEwan, I really feel no issues with that passage. In fact, “then” seems to serve the feel nicely. It’s like a heartbeat that underscores the steps being made here. I actually think the sensation I get from the paragraph would be weaker if one or two of the thens were removed.
I should note that I don’t mean to suggest you’re wrong, Johnny. On the contrary, I love this kind of stuff and welcome the different ways writing can work or not work on a sentence-by-sentence or word-by-word approach — thank you!
I was about to write the same thing about the “thens.” This is a an imagined boy’s consciousness telling us the story. I was holding my breath in the dormitory. But thanks to Johnny – it is always good to be directed to look closely at specific stylistic elements; this one works for me.
Trevor I don’t disagree with what you’re saying at all. I really was curious to see what you or anyone else for that matter thought about the use of the word there. I also was thinking, as madwoman says, that it’s from the pov of the young boy’s consciousness and perhaps that has something to do with it. I went back and looked at some Munro stuff that was part of the impulse for bringing this up, particularly Walker Brothers Cowboy which I had been rereading recently, and thought of the same thing, i.e. that it’s written from the young daughter’s pov. What threw me in that story as in some other Munro stories was that sometimes the syntax mimics a young girl’s way of speaking and yet sometimes the syntax and thoughts of the young daughter sound highly sophisticated for a young woman to be expressing or thinking. I’m also aware that it’s part of Munro’s style I guess (in fact I happened to read a journal article on Munro titled Alice Munro’s Conversational Style from journals.openedition.org/esa/869), those subtle shifts in pov and time shifts, even ideas etc. so that plays into it too.
Like I said maybe I’m nitpicking and maybe it also has to do with my obsession with trying to get my own writing “right”. I’m working on my own short story that I want to send out and the rewriting and second guessing can drive one crazy. Actually I’m glad you answered the way you did. It tells me that perhaps I need to not sweat that smaller syntax/diction stuff so much and if it flows let it be.
Thank you Trevor and madwoman for your responses.
johnnyhenry,
Whether the point of view of a story’s protagonist is well written or accurately reflects the way they think or what they say. That is important to the extent that any sort of lapse or error, no matter how slight does not throw the reader out of the story. And like Trevor mentioned, looking at single sentences or single word choices helps readers decide what works versus what works particularly well. But for many readers, the writer’s style is what locks them into the story. So while all the perfect syntax is important, probably the writer’s style is maybe the most important thing. Writing that is technically perfect or near perfect just gives a writer’s inimitable style enriched horsepower for more impact or resonance for the reader. Alice Munro’s writing style obviously wins her a wide readership. Writer Rachel Kushner could be indirectly referring to Alice Munro in the beginning when she first started writing, “writers surely know by common sense, to work hard, read a lot, and be patient. But actually, perhaps the most important thing is not any of those — even as they are all necessary. The essential ingredient is to locate, isolate, and empower what is unique to you, and use it, milk it, bleed it. Use your secret idiosyncratic strength. The thing that makes you you. That’s what I’d say.”
I appreciate what you’re saying. At the least, a writer has to keep a reader reading, from one sentence to the next. As John Gardner says, which is what I think you’re saying to an extent, it’s a matter of keeping the reader enveloped within the fictive dream. And I agree a lot of that has to do with style (and I’ll add in voice as they seem to be interconnected or to a degree the same). I think recently I’ve gotten too wrapped up in writing the best sentence in sacrifice of storytelling. I’m going to get back to telling the story the way I know how to tell it, in my own way, and worry less about structure, syntax etc. That unique idiosyncratic strength as Rachel Kushner says. Thanks Larry for your insight, it’s been helpful.
I just want to add, despite my carping, if you will (above), concerning the diction in a part of McEwan’s story, I think it’s brilliant. I just read it again.
Also want to add, with respect to the conversation above about the characters of Roland and Miriam and who took advantage of who sexually (my gut reaction was of a young boy who’d been manipulated), if you haven’t seen it there’s an interview with McEwan I found interesting (same issue) where McEwan has this to say about the subject:
Treisman:
In a moment of heightened emotion and suspense—as he waits for Khrushchev and Kennedy to start a nuclear war—Roland responds to a sexual overture that his former piano teacher, Miriam, made a few years earlier. Why do you think he is drawn to her at that moment, when he’s spent the previous two or three years avoiding her (while fantasizing about her)?
McEwan:
At the age of eleven, Roland was already partly groomed by his piano teacher, Miriam. Now, as the world “teeters on the brink” of civilization’s end, he heads off on his bike to her house. She is, in a sense, reeling him in, thanks to the damage she did three years before. Roland believes that he is the initiator. But I don’t think there can be such a thing as consensual sex with a fourteen-year-old.
Treisman:
Roland is sexually abused by Miriam, although he is too young to identify it as such. But, beyond the sexual act, her behavior—the way she alternates between seductress/lover and dominating teacher/authority figure—seems almost expressly crafted to cause psychological damage. How do you imagine Miriam views what she’s doing?
McEwan:
The story is drawn from my novel “Lessons,” which will be published in September. In a later section of the book, Roland confronts Miriam forty years on. She attempts to explain herself. To her horror, she says, she found herself falling in love with an inky little boy at a boarding school. She couldn’t escape the power that her feelings had over her. She tried to explain them away, but in the end she used all her psychological superiority to insure that Roland could never leave her. She was a brilliant woman, but she was unhinged, and whether that was part of her nature or caused by her passion I leave to the reader to ponder.
It’s interesting that the New Yorker fiction editor sees Miriam as sexually abusing Roland when some readers might not see it quite that way but would probably definitely see it that way if Roland were the teacher and Miriam the student. The whole idea of the moral dimension of an older person having a relationship with a younger one is a difficult question such as in student-teacher relationships. Yet Miriam does seem a bit unhinged in how she needs to be manipulative and controlling which is objectionable regardless of whether it is the behavior of the man or the woman. And to defensively cite the glandular influence is problematic. But it is an excellent short story because it gets you thinking about both characters and the effects their relationship has on them later on. Seems like an interesting novel to understand the full context of two random lives reconsidered after a considerable amount of time. The end of the world Cuban missile crisis underlies that instinct in human nature where one person or one nation feels the need to dominate or overwhelm the other for selfish better personal survival reasons. Also interesting that the Cuban crisis has reemerged much more violently in the Russia-Ukraine conflict seeming to prove the history can repeat itself.
I have only read this story once so far, and want to give it another go. But my initial reaction is positive. I like the complexity of the sexual awakening of the boy, and his resolution to experience “it” before the world is “vaporized,” contrasted with what is clearly abuse and manipulation by his former teacher (though that abuse angle is more salient in the “me too” period than it would have been in the 1960s, when he might have just been considered lucky). Some of the writing I most enjoyed was from his moment of dread over nuclear disaster to his subsequent resolution to visit her, and on through the visit itself, the sense of him being propelled, the building of the tension, the race and drag of his playing the duet, and finally to the undressing, bed, and finally “it.” I was so drawn along with that, I felt almost in his skin. But, McEwan is so much more accomplished than to just give us a story of sexual awakening. He thankfully complicates it with her behavior after “it,” her clear demonstration of being in charge, of using him to clean up her yard, and then using him subsequently for another couple of rounds. What depth that gives the story. And so, the final paragraph, with the introduction of the word “damage” rings true, giving us a nuanced and contemplative ending. William and Ken, I want to identify myself as a woman since you were interested in some perspectives from women.
johnnyhenry,
One further great thing about “A Duet” is that it has a near perfect story structure in that you are glued to it and anticipate what will happen next from the beginning all the way to the end. Such that it is a great stand alone short story even though it is part of a novel for which it probably fits seamlessly within. An author’s voice and style plus telling the story their own way is really important as we see in “The Duet”. But I would also wager that McEwan has a solid command of original or basic story structure which is ever changing (and which is endlessly debated in masters writing classes and in dogmatic writing advice books). And McEwan goes his own way nailing down every bit of what happened to a heartbeat. There are maybe six story elements elaborated in a short handbook called The Write Practice which I really like. A lot of readers just like to read really good short stories or novels like they did in their university English major classes where you get a “C-” if you don’t parrot back the exact structure of the novel (that exactly fits your professor’s interpretation). But a cool thing is to go over a short story or a novel or even a favorite film and see if one can figure out how an author cleverly used one or maybe all of the most generally agreed upon basic elements. The handbook author applies them to Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” and I could do that with “A Duet”. These elements are way more flexible than any writing instructor would ever admit and I think McEwan brilliantly incorporates them within his story. Apart from his technical expertise (which is another matter entirely) he seems to have an excellent sense of how to grab us from the beginning to the end, not to mention getting us to think about our own lives as he also manages to make his story extremely relevant to our present times. I know this must seem so old school but not for nothing did old school make it all the through to become fondly known as “old school”.
Larry,
I’m familiar with The Write Practice online and have referenced it here and there. You very much describe to a T what I was thinking about in terms of this story’s structure and how McEwan goes about walking that very tight rope to keep the reader invested in the fictional dream. As you say, “you are glued to it and anticipate what will happen next from the beginning all the way to the end.” And this is exactly what happened for me as well when I read “A Duet”. In fact, it brought to mind two other texts on the writing craft that speak to this idea: How does an author keep the reader glued? One is The Art of Fiction by John Gardner a portion of which I think is worth quoting here (below):
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“In the writing state — the state of inspiration — the fictive dream springs up fully alive: the writer forgets the words he has written on the page and sees, instead, his characters moving around their rooms, hunting through cupboards, glancing irritably through their mail, setting mousetraps, loading pistols. The dream is as alive and compelling as one’s dreams at night, and when the writer writes down on paper what he has imagined, the words, however inadequate, do not distract his mind from the fictive dream but provide him with a fix on it, so that when the dream flags he can reread what he’s written and find the dream starting up again. This and nothing else is the desperately sought and tragically fragile writer’s process: in his imagination, he sees made-up people doing things — sees them clearly — and in the act of wondering what they will do next he sees what they will do next, and all this he writes down in the best, most accurate words he can find, understanding even as he writes that he may have to find better words later, and that a change in the words may mean a sharpening or deepening of the vision, the fictive dream or vision becoming more and more lucid, until reality, by comparison, seems cold, tedious, and dead.”
— John Gardner, “The Art of Fiction”
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The second text which I think speaks even more directly to this idea is by George Saunders and is more recent. It’s called A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give A Master Class On Writing, Reading, And Life. When I was still teaching high school, I actually used Saunders’ approach as outlined in his text, to teach In the Cart by Chekhov and Master and Man by Tolstoy to my 10th graders. And here’s an excerpt from that text (below) which I also think is worth quoting at a bit of length (it’s Saunders speaking here, relating an anecdote with The New Yorker editor, as he leads students into how they’ll analyze In the Cart by Chekhov):
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“”Years ago, on the phone with Bill Buford, then fiction editor of The New Yorker, enduring a series of painful edits, feeling a little insecure, I went fishing for a compliment: “But what do you like about the story?” I whined. There was a long pause at the other end. And Bill said this: “Well, I read a line. And I like it…enough to read the next.”
And that was it: his entire short story aesthetic and presumably that of the magazine. And it’s perfect. A story is a linear-temporal phenomenon. It proceeds, and charms us (or doesn’t), a line at a time. We have to keep being pulled into a story for it to do anything to us.
I’ve taken a lot of comfort in this idea over the years. I don’t need a big theory of fiction to write it. I don’t have to worry about anything but: Would a reasonable person, reading line four, get enough of a jolt to go on to line five?
Why do we keep reading a story?
Because we want to.
Why do we want to?
That’s the million-dollar question. What makes a reader keep reading?
Are there laws of fiction as there are laws of physics? Do some things just work better than others? What forges the bond between reader and writer and what breaks it?
Well, how would we know?
One way would be to track our mind as it moves from line to line.
A story (any story, every story) makes its meaning at speed, a small structural pulse at a time. We read a bit of text and a set of expectations arises.
“A man stood on the roof of a seventy-story building.”
Aren’t you already expecting him to jump, fall, or be pushed off?
You’ll be pleased if the story takes that expectation into account, but not pleased if it addresses it too neatly.
We could understand a story as simply a series of such expectation/resolution moments.””
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For In the Cart Saunders goes on to talk about how Chekhov “elevates the stakes” of the story. And this is how I taught it in my class and it really did work quite well. For Master and Man the approach was a little different, not wholly, but understandably so because, of course, Tolstoy and Chekhov are different writers.
So I agree with your old-school reference while also appreciating the beauty of a good writer knowing how to break the rules.
Last thing. You mentioned film (I love film as much as lit.) and I think it totally works comparatively when analyzing how film works and how literature works. In fact, Saunders also, in A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, has students (and I did this with my students) look at a scene from Vittorio de Sica’s 1948 film Bicycle Thieves where he has them track and point out how certain details and actions not only connote thematic elements but also serve to propel the story forward and perhaps raise the stakes.
johnnyhenry,
Thanks so much for both those references, especially John Gardner and the “fictive dream” which describes a “pantzers” dilemma versus that of an “outliner” writer. Writers’ turn the unseen (except by them) into the observable through the precisely written down stimulus of random remarks on the street, linear progression of their life, their own reality and their dreams. Gardner is so on point with his thoughts on how writers write. And the former New Yorker editor Bill Buford’s advice is perfect, especially for revising and polishing the final draft. What one could write about is not unlike playing Solitaire. Your first draw is your first vision of the fictive dream; random elements out of sequence. You have a certain number of moves and any move makes the game either move towards a win or they block you off or shut you down completely from a win (or completing an intelligent (at least to you, story or novel). You have to be able to be really flexible and persevering to keep the game going and make it all come out alright (or all wrong), which is what I think Gardner may be talking about. I think McEwan, like you mentioned, has a really very succinct and precise way of putting one sentence after the other to keep us glued as Buford recommends. Trevor often recommends great films that I have acquired and watched and his sense of excellent short stories and novels (even foreign ones) is impeccable. I have found such great tips for awesome short stories, novels and films from the Mookse. Victorio de Sica’s film “Bicycle Thieves” is an awesome film that I should study for key story structure elements. A Hindi film (which at their best, are sometimes similar to Italian neorealism), “Sandeep Aur Pinky Faraar” (Sandeep and Pinky on the Run) by Dibakar Banerjee is a keen thriller but also very exacting examination of the serious side effects of sexism and paternalism, the latter of which, McEwan examines indirectly in his short story. It is very up to the minute. Watch the first 15 minutes closely for how Bannerjee gets us into the story with a classic example of a practically perfect inciting incident. It can be seen on Amazon Prime. Thanks again for the writing references and your thoughts on Ian McEwan’s “A Duet.”
Just finished this story today and came here to see what others thought. Overjoyed to find one of the best Mookse discussions in a while (those are some killer craft quotes, johnnyhenry). While reading the story initially my heart sank when I realized the fraught direction it was going, but McEwan does a brilliant job depicting Roland’s thoughts throughout, giving Miriam a realized character and laying the groundwork for that interesting conclusion at the end. A rare excerpt that doesn’t infuriate for taking up a story slot.
Thank you TJ. I felt a bit of a “disturbance in the field” as well at first, but agree McEwan was adept in making it work by the time it was over. Slick in how he almost imperceptibly seems to slip us inside the minds of the characters to understand the how and why of their perceptions. And his accompanying interview shed some light.