McEwan.

Recently I finished reading Ian McEwan's First Love, Last Rites. It's one of his earlier writings -- a collection of short stories. The only other thing I've read by him is Atonement, which I thought was near perfect (I wasn't that inspired by the middle section that seemed like a dry description of war -- sort of like running through sand a bit). Yeah, it was sort of abrupt to switch from a refined gem to rough beginnings. Still, it's interesting to see how the two connect -- the writing was good of course, but the dude's got a fascination with the tension between immaturity and sexual adulthood. Wild. I might officially add IMc (J.Lo/A.Rod'ing his name doesn't really work, huh) to the list of authors whose works I'll voluntarily read more than one of.

Sigh, I know. That last sentence was grammatically lazy. I'm too tired to fix it.