What can we know? The answer depends, of course, on what it means to truly know something. History’s greatest thinkers have wrestled with these questions, circling the very foundations of existence. To that list we can now add author Ian McEwan. Best known for his modern classic Atonement, McEwan’s body of work reflects the eclectic interests of a writer as skilled at spinning a story as he is at probing life’s most profound questions. I’ve read Atonement and a handful of his other novels, though not as many as I’d like, so when his publisher offered me a copy of his newest work, fittingly titled What We Can Know, I was eager to dive in. Could McEwan shape such a lofty question into a novel? Could he balance philosophy with the intimacy of the human experience?
The novel is a work of historical fiction, though the history in question is less about the distant past and more about our present moment. The year is 2119, and academic Thomas Metcalfe devotes his research to understanding life in the early 21st century. For us, that means the familiar ground of the mid-2010s. But for Thomas, it’s a vanished world, long reshaped by climate change, war, AI, and illness. While his society exalts science and technology, Thomas insists that the true lessons of humanity endure in the arts. His obsession centers on a vanished work of poetry. The poem in question is A Corona for Vivien, a sequence of ten sonnets as famous for its mystery as for its beauty.
The poem was first recited in 2014 by poet Francis Blundy, performed as a birthday gift for his wife, Vivien, at a dinner party among friends. The only written copy was entrusted to Vivien herself, but it disappeared soon after and was never published or preserved. History remembers it only through the recollections of those who witnessed its fleeting debut. Determined to unravel its fate, Thomas begins digging into the lives of the dinner party’s guests, uncovering secrets of love, rivalry, and betrayal. As he delves deeper, he inches closer to the truth, not only of the lost poem but of the hidden meanings and fragile humanity it may still carry across the centuries.
If my attempt at summarizing What We Can Know feels scattered, that’s only because the novel itself is vast and sprawling, brimming with big ideas that resist neat categorization. At times I was captivated, at others overwhelmed, sometimes both within the same few pages. The story is anchored by a simple quest for a missing poem, yet that search opens into a sweeping meditation on memory, knowledge, and legacy. McEwan reminds us how much of what we believe about the past is filtered, distorted, or lost, even as our access to information has never been greater.
The further I read, the more demanding the novel became, but that rigor felt intentional. Its characters are layered, flawed, and often difficult to like. Its plot sprawls, loops, and challenges the reader to keep up. But beneath that complexity lies McEwan’s central theme. What we can know will always be colored by the subjectivity of the people doing the knowing. Life is messy, sometimes tragic, and unpredictable, but it's shaped by our unshakable drive to learn, remember, and seek meaning. That desire, McEwan suggests, is what defines us, and perhaps what allows a fragile sense of optimism to endure. In the end, What We Can Know reminds us that knowledge is never absolute, but the act of seeking it is what makes us human.
For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.
(2025, 75)
What a wonderful review! This sounds like a tough book (and a melancholic one too), but absolutely worth a read.
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