A lucky stroke for the reader, in my opinion. Charlie, as a lonely and slightly creepy man in his mid-thirties, naturally wanted an Eve, but they sold out too quickly for him to get his hands on one. These androids are, somewhat unimaginatively, named Adams and Eves. Charlie Friend, a bone idle, narcissistic, pathetic figure, who spends his days losing inherited money on the stock market, splurges a large sum on a newly crafted synthetic human, one of very few to have been built. McEwan follows in the footsteps of many former creators in attempting to craft a story on artificial intelligence. I have always found McEwan difficult to enjoy on a surface level, mostly due to the odious pretentiousness of his narrative voice, which seems to have persisted throughout his work, and persists still in Machines Like Me. Machines Like Me marks the fifth book that I have read by veteran British novelist Ian McEwan, a man who I have never quite forgiven for writing Enduring Love, since the existence of that text necessitated my suffering through analysing it for A Level.
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