J.A. Fletcher has a wonderfully obtuse misapprehension that the York Notes is in fact the novel itself, and at times was overshadowed by his/her lengthy disturbed delusion for what seemed to be incessant wordy misunderstandings that left you feeling wryly amused. The passionate shallowness of this review cannot be overlooked, that it became sometimes a tedious monologue of words that drove you into reading the next sentence was maybe its intention. You need time to absorb the heavy prose and yet you miss nothing by not ignoring the details. Eventually there is an acceptance of this pointlessness that at times left me wondering why I persevered and finished the review. Please read the actual novel and look forward to seeing the film which I am sure Mr McEwan must have had a cumbersome time bringing to a conclusion that readers of the York Notes will find sufficiently dictinct to avoid confusing with.