I pondered for a long time what sense there would be in writing about this novel, because so much has been written, commented on, and discussed. Then I recognized the importance this author has had for me over time, and how much I’ve fallen back in love with his writing, with his magnificent ability to address all aspects of humanity, and then I decided that, at least for me, it will always make sense to reflect on something that fascinates me so much, and it will probably always make sense to talk about Ian McEwan, again and again. Because, after all, doesn’t a book also tell the story of the person reading it? I’m convinced so.
The challenge of narrating a novel of this magnitude is equally acute, because What We Can Know is a container of complexity, where, for one thing, the boundary between reality and fiction is constantly blurred, as the author’s ironic note at the end of the volume emphasizes:
Interested readers are asked to keep in mind that nothing that has anything to do with this novel is buried anywhere.
So it’s necessary to take a step back to understand, and it’s crucial—in a time where even reading has become an exhibitionist experience—to pause and grasp the layers that construct this book. We’re in a dystopian world, the year 2191, and the protagonist, Thomas Metcalfe, a university professor and researcher, is searching for “A Crown for Vivien,” the lost poem by the famous poet Francis Blundy. Many before him have attempted this feat, without success. The only copy of the poem, in fact, had been given by the writer himself to his wife Vivien, who is its undisputed protagonist, and no one since has ever been able to discover what happened to this unique work.
In his now desperate search for the precious work, we see Thomas’s life unfold: his love for the highly intelligent Rose, his constant questions about the available material, his email exchanges with the owner of the Bodleian Library, his clumsy assistant, and the personal (and then marital) crisis caused by a constant and obsessive comparison with the past.
A comparison that wears Thomas down from within, not to mention the inexorable crisis of humanities and literature that is affecting the university. Thomas lives in a world on the verge of self-destruction, which is why all research resources are largely placed at the disposal of science, so that it can save the historical moment to which the reader tragically witnesses. McEwan is an undisputed master at showing on the page what awaits us. In the book, the denounced climate crisis has two names, both clear omens of humanity’s imminent demise: “Great Disaster” and “Flood.”
Suddenly, everything changes, and we find ourselves in the second part of the novel, set in 2014, precisely during the years of Francis Blundy’s intellectual circle: here the undisputed protagonist becomes Vivien, who finally tells us her life story in the first person, in a novel that seems, at times, to transform into a true detective story. And then the reader discovers Vivien’s tragic truth, her role in the story. Her instantaneous love for Blundy, her first marriage to the sweet violin maker Percy, the sacrifices, the guilt, the betrayals, the remorse, the illness, the death, the nature that is always a protagonist alongside her. The undisputed power of literature that burns so strongly throughout the novel that it is moving.
I don’t know if I’ve truly succeeded in summarizing yet another masterpiece by one of my favorite writers, I don’t even know if this was my true intent: is it really possible to summarize McEwan? I hope, however, that I’ve at least managed to convey how necessary this book and this author are for asking questions: about ourselves, about the past, the present, nature, love, death. In short, about life itself. Isn’t that exactly what literature should do, after all?
Written by Maria De Gennaro
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Ian McEwan, Quello che possiamo sapere, Einaudi, Torino, 2025
Original edition: What We Can Know, Jonathan Cape, London, 2025