I have been reading Ian McEwan for years and enjoying the movies that have been made from his books. He does deal with challenging issues. I had never heard of this book. It turns out it was the first book he had published, but rather than a novel, it's a collection of short stories that had appeared in other forms previously. I'm not a big fan of the short story format. If there's a story there, I want more. That was not a problem here. For the most part, I had more than enough with each of these short stories.

This was a rare look at what McEwan was like before becoming one of the most important writers. These early stories dealt with topics that the more mature author avoids or at least doesn't dwell on topics that offend most readers. The first story has both incest and child abuse. The second features a hundred-year-old penis preserved in formaldehyde and people unable to communicate. The third features people unable to face reality. The fourth features lying, pedophilia, and murder. The next took us to prison. And then we got eels and a huge rat. The last involved people disappearing into costumes.

I'm really glad McEwan grew out of this stage. Feel free to skip it. ( )

Wow. What a messed up collection of stories. My scene. ( )

A collection of eight short stories, most of them pervaded with a sense, overt or subtle, of dark and twisted sexuality. Which isn't something I generally have a problem with. I mean, I remember kind of liking McEwan's The Comfort of Strangers, which was about nothing but dark and twisted sexuality. But some of the stories in this one? Hoo, boy. They left the inside of my brain feeling... dirty. And not in a good way.

Specifically, there are three stories, "Homemade," "Butterflies" and "Disguises," which -- and there's no way to sugarcoat this, so I'm just going to say it -- feature the sexual abuse, and, in one case, the subsequent murder, of children. The first two of those are told from the POV of the abusers, who are horrifically matter-of-fact about what they've done, and utterly, utterly incapable of anything resembling human empathy. Make no mistake, they're intended to be disturbing. But I kind of find myself wondering... Are these stories that capture the banality of evil effectively and well, disturbing readers in thought-provoking ways by drawing us in in a manner that makes us feel almost complicit in their horrors? Or is this just an author trotting out the ugliest taboo available for sheer shock value? Maybe it's both? In any case, I find myself genuinely sort of wishing I hadn't read them, and that's extremely rare for me.

The other stories are mostly less memorable, which, honestly, I'm not going to complain about. The exception is "Solid Geometry" which actually has a lot in common with the ones that bothered me so much, including a POV character who does awful things while feeling little more than vague annoyance. But that one doesn't involve children, at least. And there's an almost pleasantly strange fantasy element to it that makes it entertaining as much as it is uncomfortable. Which, now that I think about it, is also pretty messed-up, in its own way.

Rating: What the hell do I rate something like this, something that's extremely well-written and mostly does what it intends to do, but leaves me genuinely regretting having read it? I guess I'll call it 3/5, for lack of any better option. ( )

As noted, stories are my chosen path. These examples of eerie early McEwan are notable for structure and shock value, the promise of the latter does diminish the further one proceeds into the book. ( )

Compared to his later Man Booker Prize nominated works, Ian McEwan's earliest efforts are harsh, to say the least. Perverse and violent, the early McEwan had more in common with Stephen King than Julian Barnes, Kazuo Ishiguro, or A.S. Byatt. In fact, I'm not sure I could tell the difference between an early McEwan story and your typical King story. One could argue that McEwan is more polished than King, also more psychological than paranormal, but these differences would be measured in small degrees.

First Love, Last Rites was McEwan's very first book. A collection of stories, it was published in 1975, around the same time Stephen King was getting his start. It could be argued therefore that neither writer was inspired by the other, but that both writers shared similar influences. Perhaps it was merely in the stars—the writers were born nine months apart. Enough with comparison, Ian McEwan's writing was dark, full of taboos, and that's all there is to say about it.

As with most collections, the stories are rather uneven. There are those that stand out as being exceptional and those that are quickly forgotten. It is the stories that are most disturbing that are most unforgettable, and not just because they are so shocking. It is these stories—stories of molestation, incest, and rape—that McEwan's writing is at its best. Frankly, I'm not sure how I feel about that. If on one hand, McEwan had a sick obsession with these subjects, then I'm left uneasy with how to approach his writing. On the other hand, if McEwan had an obsession with these subjects that was based more on a heart for the victim, then I can understand. It all comes down to intention and psychology and... well, it's easier just to slap photos of King and McEwan next to one another and compare them.

Put away the unease and any comparisons, and First Love, Last Rites is still an average collection overall. Yes, there are some wonderfully told, richly drawn five-star stories, but there are several duds as well, stories I'd forgotten before starting the next. Readers who have been personally affected by rape or molestation, or are deeply unsettled by such topics, may wish to avoid this collection, as well as anything McEwan wrote in the first ten years of his career, but other readers shouldn't necessarily avoid the author's earliest works simply because they're dark. In a 2015 article McEwan wrote for The Guardian, the author reflects on his first collection and how critics labeled him a monster, while praising the work itself. He writes, “It was difficult for me then, and would be even more difficult now, to persuade readers that my intentions were actually moral,” and gives a strong argument for how we, culturally, have become sexually confused. I think McEwan has a valid point, and it's one we could spend some time dissecting. Then again, perhaps it's simpler just to offer a distraction and move onto the next review... ( )