This was one of my favorite favorite favorite favorite books as a kid. Back then, I picked it out for the cover, having no idea who the author was, and only ever found my way back to it by memorizing which shelf it was on in the library. Thus, I grew up and “lost” it — until just now, when I stumbled upon a used copy while browsing a bookstore in the 6th arrondissement. When I got to the counter, the check-out lady exclaimed, “Oh! This one! It’s wonderful" which proves that none of us love on an island, but only must wait patiently for the joy of a commonly held interest.
(Also: I can’t believe it was Ian McEwan all the time.)