What We Can Know: Summary, Analysis, and Why It Still Matters
Seas have swallowed the coasts, and a lone scholar sifts through the wreckage of our era. Sound far-fetched? It might be closer than we think. In Ian McEwan’s novel What We Can Know, a future academic searches for truth in the aftermath of a climate catastrophe.
The story leaps a century ahead to imagine how tomorrow’s world will judge us today. It’s a gripping literary mystery set against an all-too-plausible dystopia, and it forces us to confront a haunting question: when the waters finally recede, what will remain of what we knew?
Key Points at a Glance
Dual timelines, one haunting mystery: The novel spans 2014 and 2119, linking a dinner party in the present day to a waterlogged future where a lost poem becomes an obsession.
Thomas Metcalfe’s quest: In 2119, scholar Tom Metcalfe scours a drowned Britain for a missing poem read only once by poet Francis Blundy – a poem that vanished but may hold clues to understanding the past.
Climate catastrophe backdrop: The future world has been ravaged by rising seas and a freak nuclear disaster. Britain is reduced to scattered islands, a direct result of 21st-century inaction on climate change (a period future generations bitterly nickname “the Derangement”).
Secrets beneath the surface: As Tom pieces together what happened at that 2014 dinner, he uncovers entangled loves, betrayals, and a brutal crime among Blundy’s circle. The truth behind the poem is wrapped up in these personal secrets, shattering Tom’s assumptions about people he thought he understood.
Literary mystery meets dystopia: McEwan blends post-apocalyptic science fiction with a literary detective story. The narrative shifts from a genteel English gathering to a harsh future, highlighting the fragile thread connecting past and future.
Themes of knowledge and memory: What We Can Know grapples with the limits of knowledge – how much of history and human nature can we ever truly know? It explores the gap between data and reality, and how memory, art, and perspective shape our understanding of truth.
Moral reckoning: The novel forces a moral reckoning with our present. Through the eyes of future survivors, we see the consequences of ignoring warnings, and we’re asked to consider how we’ll be remembered (or blamed) by those who come after us.
Background and Context
Published in 2025, What We Can Know arrives in an era of rising seas, technological leaps, and societal soul-searching. Ian McEwan, one of Britain’s most acclaimed novelists, uses this book to confront the defining issue of our time: climate change. The story is rooted in a tradition of speculative fiction and “cli-fi” (climate fiction), but McEwan approaches it as, in his own words, “science fiction without the science.” In other words, the novel imagines a future shaped by scientific realities – melting ice caps, nuclear mishaps – yet focuses on human feelings, history, and responsibility rather than gadgetry or space travel.
The setting reflects real-world anxieties. By 2119 in the novel, global warming and political missteps have literally redrawn the map. Much of southern England lies underwater after an apocalyptic combination of rising sea levels and an accidental nuclear blast. Society has fractured: even the United States has splintered under warlords, while new powers like Nigeria have risen. This bleak future speaks to today’s concerns about ecological collapse and geopolitical upheaval. It also echoes literary classics – think of the drowned London of J.G. Ballard or the scholarly scavenger hunts of A.S. Byatt’s Possession. McEwan merges these influences into a dystopian campus novel: a story that’s part post-apocalypse, part academic mystery.
Historically, the novel’s imagined “Derangement” (the first half of the 21st century) reflects our current moment. In McEwan’s future, everyone knew about the climate crisis but failed to act until it was too late – a pointed commentary on our real timeline. The book also continues McEwan’s career-long engagement with big ideas. From Atonement (which examined guilt and storytelling) to Machines Like Me (which tackled AI and ethics), McEwan often writes fiction that grapples with morality, science, and society. What We Can Know pushes this ambition even further, attempting to bridge past, present, and future in one narrative. It stands within the literary genre of dystopian fiction, but it’s equally a philosophical novel about history and knowledge. This dual identity – as both cautionary tale and cerebral mystery – positions What We Can Know as a unique entry in McEwan’s bibliography and in contemporary fiction at large.
Plot Overview
2014 – A Fateful Dinner Party: The story’s seed is planted in modern-day England. Renowned poet Francis Blundy hosts an intimate dinner to celebrate his wife Vivien’s 50th birthday. At this candlelit gathering of close friends and colleagues, Francis unveils a brand-new poem written for the occasion: “A Corona for Vivien.” He reads it aloud as a tribute to his wife. The poem – a heartfelt, possibly profound piece – mesmerizes the guests. Wine flows, conversations spark, and the night seems filled with warmth and meaning. Yet this seemingly gentle literary moment will echo for generations. Unbeknownst to everyone at the table, Francis’s manuscript copy of the poem (written on old-fashioned vellum) disappears after the dinner. It is never published or seen again. In the years that follow, A Corona for Vivien becomes a tantalizing enigma. What secrets did it hold? Why was it never made public? The absence of this poem spawns speculation, even conspiracy theories. Some whisper that its content was controversial – perhaps so politically charged that powerful interests suppressed it. Others suspect more personal reasons for its vanishing act. But in 2014, all of that is yet to come. For now, the dinner party disperses on a pleasant note, and the mystery quietly takes root.
2119 – A Drowned World’s Obsession: Jump ahead 105 years. The world is utterly transformed. After successive catastrophes, coastal England is underwater, with survivors clustered on higher ground now turned islands. Amid this stark landscape, we meet Thomas “Tom” Metcalfe, a literature professor at the University of the South Downs – one of the few remaining outposts of learning in what used to be Britain. Tom is a solitary, introspective figure. Life in 2119 is hard and stripped of many comforts, but Tom finds solace in the archives of the past. He is fascinated by the early 21st century – that turbulent time we live in, which people of his era pointedly call the Derangement. To Tom, those years of “ignorant, destructive louts” (as some of his students say) also seem vibrantly alive and rich compared to his bleak present. He grows nostalgic for our era, marveling at what he sees as a time of great freedom, culture, and possibility, even if it was also chaotic.
Tom’s particular fixation is the mystery of Francis Blundy’s lost poem. In the Bodleian Library archives (relocated to a mountaintop for safekeeping against the floods), Tom pores over letters, diaries, and scant records of that 2014 dinner. He has made it his mission to reconstruct the event and, if possible, find the text of “A Corona for Vivien.” The first half of the novel follows Tom’s detective work. Piece by piece, he charts out who was present that evening and what their lives were like. Vivien Blundy, the poet’s wife and honoree, emerges as a central figure in his research – more central, perhaps, than Francis himself. Also in the picture are the couple’s close friends and colleagues who attended the party. Through archival scraps, Tom uncovers hints that this gathering was not as idyllic as it appeared. Under the surface courtesies lay tensions and secrets that historians a century later can only guess at.
Despite the scant evidence, Tom persists obsessively. His personal life in 2119 gradually falls into the backdrop; we learn he has a colleague (and sometime lover) named Rose who worries about him. But Tom is increasingly absorbed by the past, even as the world around him struggles with daily survival. After much digging, he catches a break – a clue that promises to lead to the truth behind the poem. The novel’s midway point delivers a twist: Tom discovers a hidden account (a letter, memoir, or some preserved document) that provides a firsthand perspective on the Blundy dinner and its aftermath.
Revelations of Love and Betrayal: The narrative perspective shifts in the second half (to reveal the details would spoil the surprise, but it’s fair to say it’s someone intimately involved in the 2014 events). Through this discovered account, we finally step directly into the past storyline and see what really happened around Francis’s grand poetic gesture. The truth is startling. Far from a genteel literary soir ée, the birthday dinner was the prelude to a tangled web of personal drama. We learn that Francis and Vivien’s marriage was not as picture-perfect as the poem might have suggested. Vivien herself becomes the focal point – her emotions, doubts, and desires drive the hidden story. It turns out Vivien was harboring deep unhappiness and secrets of her own. An illicit relationship comes to light, indicating that one of the attendees (a trusted friend) was more than just a friend to her. Francis’s poem, ostensibly a loving tribute, carried undertones that only Vivien understood – lines that pricked at her conscience.
As tensions quietly mounted, events took a dark turn. In the wake of that dinner, what should have been a cherished memory became a nightmare. Jealousy, guilt, and fear collided, culminating in a violent crime. (The novel gradually reveals this “brutal crime,” and it’s the lynchpin of why the poem vanished.) In the chaos of betrayal and confrontation, a life is lost. The surviving characters make choices to cover up the truth. A Corona for Vivien – the only physical evidence that might hint at these undercurrents – is deliberately destroyed or hidden by someone, erased from the record to protect reputations and loved ones. The legendary missing poem was not suppressed by corporate censors or political forces after all, but by personal desperation. It’s a poignant irony: for all the grand theories that future academics spun, the reason the poem stayed hidden was intensely intimate.
Resolution in an Uncertain Future: Armed with this knowledge, Tom Metcalfe finally sees the full picture. The lost poem’s message and the fates of Francis, Vivien, and their circle come into sharp focus. This revelation upends Tom’s romanticized vision of the past. He must confront the gap between the idealized history he imagined and the messy human truth. The climax of the novel isn’t an action set-piece, but a moral and emotional reckoning. Tom reflects on the limits of what anyone can truly know about another person’s heart or about history. The missing poem, once a symbol of intellectual intrigue, now stands for the unknowable truths behind every historical fact.
In the end, Tom shares his findings (through a note or publication) bridging the two “islands” of time. The narrative closes with a brief coda back in 2119, as Tom and Rose contemplate the meaning of what he’s uncovered. The future remains daunting – the seas are still high, humanity is chastened but alive – yet there’s a glimmer of understanding. Tom realizes that even after global catastrophe, people are still people: flawed, passionate, secretive, and occasionally heroic in their survival. The plot concludes on a reflective note, with Tom (and the reader) left to ponder how the stories of yesterday inform the choices of tomorrow.
Main Characters
Thomas “Tom” Metcalfe
Tom is the story’s primary protagonist in 2119. A literature professor in a post-apocalyptic Britain, he is scholarly, determined, and deeply nostalgic. Tom has dedicated himself to studying the lost world of the early 21st century, which he finds both disturbing and thrilling. What defines Tom is his obsession with the Francis Blundy mystery – it gives him purpose in a shattered world. He is methodical and passionate about truth, yet personally a bit isolated. Tom’s journey through the novel is both external (an actual investigation) and internal (a confrontation with his own biases). Initially, he appears calm and “tranquil,” but we soon see he’s restless and haunted by questions. Tom’s relationships in 2119, especially with his colleague Rose, reveal that he can be so consumed by academia that he neglects the living people around him. As an unreliable narrator, Tom filters the story through his liberal, idealistic lens – a point the novel subtly critiques. By the end, Tom undergoes a quiet transformation: he gains a more sober understanding of the past he idolized and faces uncomfortable truths about human nature and himself.
Francis Blundy
Francis is the famous poet whose actions in 2014 ignite the novel’s mystery. In the present-day timeline, Francis is depicted as charismatic, erudite, and perhaps a touch vain – the kind of esteemed literary figure who can hold a room spellbound. He pours his artistry into “A Corona for Vivien,” intending it as a loving gift. Francis embodies the intersection of art and ego: he’s sensitive enough to craft beautiful verse, yet oblivious to or willfully ignoring the domestic tensions around him. We see Francis mostly through second-hand research and recollections, so he’s initially an enigma. As Tom digs deeper and as the narrative shifts to the past perspective, we learn more about Francis’s inner life. He truly loves Vivien, but his own pride and preoccupations blind him to her discontent. Francis also represents the broader society of 2014 – aware of issues like climate change (he lives through the “Derangement” period) but more immediately concerned with personal and cultural pursuits. His fate after the dinner (which involves tragedy) underscores the novel’s theme that knowing the facts isn’t the same as understanding people. Francis’s legacy in 2119 is reduced to archives and anecdotes, a reminder of how even a great man’s life can be misunderstood by history.
Vivien Blundy
Vivien (sometimes spelled Vivien in the text) is Francis’s wife and the quiet lynchpin of the story. At the birthday dinner in 2014, she is the honored spouse, the muse for Francis’s new poem. Outwardly, Vivien plays the gracious hostess and inspiration. However, the novel gradually reveals Vivien as a woman with her own dreams and secrets. In Tom’s research, she emerges as a somewhat mysterious figure – the one person he can’t quite pin down through letters or reviews. When the perspective shifts, Vivien takes center stage. We discover that under her composed surface, she wrestled with loneliness and moral conflict. Vivien’s role illuminates the theme of “entangled loves”: she is involved in a clandestine affair (with whom, the novel reveals in its twists), which fills a void left by her marriage. The guilt and passion from this affair drive her actions. Vivien is also deeply thoughtful about the future – it’s hinted that she worried about what world was coming (a thematic link to Tom’s future concerns). After the dinner party’s fatal turn, Vivien makes a fateful choice to protect what she holds dear, leading to the poem’s disappearance. In 2119, Vivien is long gone, but through Tom’s eventual discovery, her voice and perspective surface powerfully. She symbolizes the idea that behind every historical footnote (e.g. “the poet’s wife”) lies a full, complex human story. Vivien’s character forces Tom – and the reader – to question simplistic narratives. Was she a villain for hiding the truth, or a tragic figure trying to preserve some dignity in disaster? By portraying Vivien with empathy, McEwan shows the moral ambiguity at the heart of personal and historical judgment.
Rose
Rose is Tom Metcalfe’s colleague in 2119 and one of the few significant characters in the future timeline besides Tom. She works at the University of the South Downs as well, likely in a scientific or administrative capacity (the university leans towards science and math in this future). Rose provides a grounding counterpoint to Tom. Where Tom is obsessed with the past, Rose is practical and concerned with the here-and-now – like keeping the university running and helping their struggling community. She and Tom have a past romantic connection, and although their intimate relationship has dimmed, a fondness remains. Rose worries about Tom’s health and sanity as he delves into what she might see as arcane minutiae of a bygone era. She challenges him when his nostalgia verges on dismissing the suffering around them. In one notable discussion, Rose articulates the difficulty of writing or even thinking about normal life during 2015–2030 as the climate crisis escalated – a meta commentary that “new forms were needed” to address such catastrophe in art. This conversation shows Rose as perceptive, and it subtly nudges Tom (and us) to see the irony of obsessing over the past while living through a dire present. Rose’s presence in the novel, though not central to the plot’s mystery, is crucial thematically. She represents those trying to rebuild and care for humanity after the fall. In the conclusion, Rose is there as Tom synthesizes his findings. She helps temper his nostalgia with reality and stands as a small beacon of human connection – reminding us that even in a drowned world, friendship and concern for one another persist.
(Other characters in the book include the colleagues and friends who attended the 2014 dinner – each with their own minor storylines that Tom pieces together. There’s the trusted friend turned lover, whose identity becomes key to the puzzle, and possibly others who had stakes in the poem’s fate. While not all are named here, they collectively paint a picture of a social circle rife with hidden tensions.)
Themes and Ideas
Climate Change and Catastrophe
At its core, What We Can Know is a climate cautionary tale. The devastated world of 2119 – sunken cities, ruined ecosystems, displaced nations – stands as a stark warning. McEwan vividly illustrates the consequences of what happens when warnings are ignored. The term “the Derangement” in the novel labels our current era of climate inaction, highlighting a painful truth: never before have humans known so much about an impending disaster and done so little. This theme resonates through scenes like the description of Britain’s “Inundation” by a man-made tsunami, or glimpses of social collapse as resources grew scarce. It’s a grim extrapolation of today’s headlines – wildfires, floods, and political turmoil – taken to their extreme. Yet, amid the doom, the novel isn’t merely disaster porn. It asks us to consider moral accountability: Who is responsible for the broken world? Could things have been different? And crucially, what do the survivors feel about their ancestors (us)? In Tom’s archival pursuit, there’s a reverence for the lost “richness of the world,” but also anger at the folly that led to its loss. The climate theme serves as both background and impetus for the story – it isolates Tom on his scholarly island and provides the very reason the poem’s context matters so much. By tying an intimate mystery to a global catastrophe, McEwan suggests that every personal story exists within larger planetary stakes. The lesson is clear and sobering: the future will judge the present by how we tackle (or fumble) the climate crisis.
Knowledge, Memory, and the Limits of Understanding
What can we truly know about the past or even about each other? This philosophical question permeates the novel, giving it its title. Tom’s journey is essentially an epistemological one – a quest for knowledge – and it lays bare how fragmentary and biased such knowledge can be. McEwan cleverly structures the book to explore this theme: first, through Tom’s researcher perspective (cobbling together facts, forming theories), and then through a direct insider perspective of the events (providing context and truth that eluded the research). The contrast is striking. It shows how easily the historical record can mislead or be incomplete. For much of the novel, Tom and his contemporaries mythologize Francis Blundy’s poem and 2014 itself. They project grand narratives onto scant evidence – turning the lost poem into a symbol, imagining conspiracies, casting early 21st-century life as either idyllic or barbaric. When the reality is revealed, it’s more nuanced and human than the myth. This underscores a humbling idea: knowledge is finite. No matter how much data or documentation we compile, we cannot capture the full truth of lived experience. Memory and personal testimony fill in some gaps but come with their own subjectivity. The novel invites readers to think about how history is written and remembered. Are our sources reliable? Whose stories get lost, like Vivien’s almost was? Even the future setting itself, where much information has been lost to wars and floods, echoes this fragility of memory. In a world awash in digital data today, What We Can Know reminds us that preserving truth isn’t just about hard drives and archives – it’s about empathy and interpretation. Ultimately, the book suggests a paradox: we know more than ever (scientifically, historically), yet when it comes to understanding human motives and hearts, certainty will always slip through our fingers.
Love, Guilt, and Human Complexity
Beneath the climate drama and intellectual puzzles, the novel is also a very intimate story of love and guilt. The relationships around which the mystery revolves – husband and wife, lovers, close friends – drive the emotional engine of the plot. McEwan is known for dissecting moral dilemmas in private life, and here he shows how one evening of celebration can hide fault lines of resentment, longing, and regret. The theme of entangled loves speaks to the messy, often contradictory nature of human relationships. Vivien’s affection for Francis coexists with her affair; Francis’s devotion to art arguably blinds him to his wife’s reality; a friend’s loyalty is tested against passion. These personal entanglements lead to a moral crisis and a crime, highlighting how ordinary people can be pushed to extraordinary (and terrible) actions. Guilt comes into play strongly after the crime. Characters must live with what they’ve done – or in Vivien’s case, with what she’s chosen to hide. That weight of guilt, and the hope for redemption (or lack thereof), is a subtle theme. In fact, readers of McEwan might see a conversation with his earlier novel Atonement, where a character sought atonement through storytelling. In What We Can Know, perhaps redemption is out of reach: the characters involved never get to fully atone or explain themselves to the world. Only through Tom’s discovery do their truths come to light, but too late for the actual people. This brings a melancholic edge: the idea that some secrets die with their keepers, and sometimes justice or forgiveness is never obtained. Yet, by unearthing this story, Tom performs a small act of posthumous mercy – acknowledging those hidden emotions and mistakes. Thematically, the book suggests that history isn’t just shaped by kings and catastrophes, but by private moments of love and fear. And it is in the understanding of those human moments that we find a richer, if complicated, truth.
Responsibility Across Time
Connecting all these threads is a profound inquiry into intergenerational responsibility. McEwan prompts us to think about the chain that links the past, present, and future. Characters in the novel often reflect on how they will be seen by those to come, or how they view those who came before. This is most explicit in Tom’s wondering: What will our descendants think of us? The future characters look back at the 2000s and 2010s with a mix of awe and anger – awe at the abundance and freedom, anger at the negligence and short-sightedness. There’s a striking reversal here: in 2119, young students chastise Tom for romanticizing our era, considering us “destructive louts” who squandered a livable planet. On the flip side, Vivien in 2014 is portrayed as quietly worried about what future world her generation will leave (her character’s concerns hint at this). This theme resonates strongly today as we ourselves judge past generations for problems we inherit (pollution, conflicts) and fear the judgment of the young for issues like climate change and social injustice. What We Can Know holds up a mirror: it asks readers in 2025 and beyond to imagine being on the receiving end of history’s verdict. Will we act in ways that make our grandchildren proud, or will they curse our name? Yet the novel also acknowledges the complexity of blame. Individuals like Francis and Vivien were caught up in personal dramas; can we really expect every person to be a hero of sustainability when they’re struggling with love and loss? The interplay of big-picture responsibility and individual life is finely drawn. By the book’s conclusion, one takeaway is that while time moves on and civilizations fall, human concerns – love, legacy, regret – remain constant. It’s a call for empathy across time. We should learn from the past (even its hidden chapters), engage fully in the present, and keep the future in mind with every choice we make.
Impact
Why does What We Can Know matter right now, today? Because it speaks to urgent issues and eternal questions in equal measure. The novel might be set in an imagined future, but it’s really about our contemporary world. First and foremost, it shines a spotlight on the climate emergency. As we grapple with record-breaking temperatures, mega-storms, and political inertia, McEwan’s future feels like a warning we can’t afford to ignore. The book compels readers to face the possibility that our present might become a cautionary tale – that we are living in the age others will call “the Derangement.” By reading about Tom’s future, we implicitly ask ourselves: what are we doing right now to change that outcome? In this way, the novel is more than fiction; it’s a prompt for reflection on environmental ethics and policy. It challenges any sense of complacency by vividly illustrating the cost of inaction.
Beyond climate, What We Can Know resonates on the level of information and truth – issues exceedingly relevant in the 2020s. We live in a time of information overload, fake news, and contested histories. McEwan’s story of a scholar sifting truth from fragments mirrors our struggle to discern reality amid chaos. The idea that even a poem could be lost and turn into myth parallels how facts and events today can be distorted or forgotten. It’s a reminder that what we take for granted (books, digital archives, open communication) can vanish or be corrupted – unless we remain vigilant. In an age where entire narratives can be constructed from scant evidence or deliberate misinformation, What We Can Know urges a careful, critical approach to knowledge. It underscores the value of the humanities and historical understanding at a time when those are sometimes undervalued. Tom’s reverence for archives and literature validates the importance of preserving stories and learning from them, something society needs as it confronts rapid change.
The novel also matters because of its human insight. It asks timeless questions: How well do we know the people we love? How do personal choices ripple out into the wider world? These questions are perpetually relevant. In an era of social media highlight reels and public personas, the gap between appearance and reality – a major element in the Blundy dinner story – feels especially poignant. McEwan’s exploration of marital strain and personal failing could happen in any era. It still matters because it’s a study of compassion: once we know Vivien’s true story, we feel empathy where history had only left a footnote. In a divided cultural moment, that reminder to seek the story behind the story – to understand rather than judge hastily – is invaluable.
Finally, What We Can Know matters as a piece of art. In a literary landscape often dominated by sequels and safe bets, McEwan took a risk here. He blended genres and packed big ideas into a thriller-like narrative. It’s the kind of ambitious, idea-driven novel that provokes discussion. Whether one loves or critiques it, the book pushes the envelope on how a novel can engage with science, philosophy, and politics without losing sight of character and plot. For readers today, it exemplifies how fiction can illuminate reality. It still matters because it refuses to let us off easy – it entertains, yes, but it also unsettles and inspires. As long as we continue to face the twin challenges of understanding our world and connecting with one another, a novel that tackles those challenges head-on will remain vital.
Real-World Parallels and Lessons
The world of What We Can Know may be fictional, but it parallels our reality in uncannily direct ways. Consider the novel’s premise: a critical warning ignored until it’s too late. In the book, that warning is climate change. In real life, we’re living that storyline right now. Look at the increasing frequency of climate disasters – wildfires consuming entire towns, hurricanes intensifying over overheated oceans, droughts threatening food supplies. Each event echoes the novel’s drowned cities and chaotic future. And what about our collective response? Just as in McEwan’s imagined “Derangement” period, today we have abundant scientific knowledge about the crisis, yet society’s actions lag far behind. Governments make lofty promises at climate summits, but emissions hit new highs. The lesson here is uncomfortably clear: if we continue down this path of half-measures and denial, McEwan’s dystopia could become our children’s reality. The novel’s future inhabitants feel anger and bafflement at our complacency – a sentiment already echoed by many young people and activists around the world. In headlines and protests, we see the real-world Vivien Blundys and Tom Metcalfes: voices crying out about what kind of planet we’ll leave behind.
Another parallel lies in the fragmentation of truth and the preservation of knowledge. In the book, crucial information (like the poem and the real story behind it) nearly disappears due to a mix of disaster and deliberate concealment. In our world, we can draw a line to issues like digital decay and media manipulation. For instance, think of how many photos and documents are stored only online – what if a massive solar flare or cyber warfare wiped out servers? Future historians might scratch their heads over a “lost chapter” of the 21st century, much as Tom puzzles over 2014. Even on a smaller scale, consider historical cold cases or mysteries – like the identity of historical figures in old photographs or the contents of lost letters – where we’re left to speculate because evidence is gone. Our reality is full of situations where we must interpret incomplete data, not unlike Tom in the archives. Additionally, the rumor in the novel that “big business suppressed the poem” has real analogues. Corporations in our world have indeed suppressed inconvenient truths – from oil companies burying climate research, to tobacco firms hiding health effects, to tech companies withholding data on social impacts. Conspiracy theories flourish when people sense information is hidden; McEwan mirrors that dynamic. The lesson is that transparency and honesty are vital. When truth is obscured, trust erodes and myths take over.
The interpersonal drama of the novel also holds a mirror up to real life. Secret affairs, moral compromises, and their unintended consequences are age-old human patterns. In the news, we often see scandals where a leader’s private indiscretion leads to public fallout, or a whistleblower’s revelation uncovers a web of deception. The specifics differ, but the core lesson is similar: personal choices can have far-reaching effects. A moment’s violence or a hidden love can ripple out, affecting families, communities, even historical narratives. In What We Can Know, one act of violence and a few hidden pages altered what future generations understood about a whole era. In reality, think about how one incident – say, a cover-up of a crime or a lie in a memoir – can skew the historical record until it’s corrected. It teaches us that we should approach sensational stories with a critical eye and remember that behind every official account, there might be a more complex truth.
Perhaps the most hopeful real-world parallel is the novel’s implied faith in human resilience and curiosity. Even after civilization’s collapse, Tom dedicates himself to learning and understanding. We see this resilience in our world whenever disaster strikes. After floods or earthquakes, people rebuild. After losing cultural heritage (say, a library burning down), communities try to save what they can and document memories. Our knack for surviving and preserving knowledge is a real thing – consider the efforts to digitize books, record oral histories, or seed vaults safeguarding crop diversity for future generations. The novel suggests that even through “natural and self-inflicted catastrophes, we have the knack of surviving somehow.” Real-world parallels are evident in how society endured through world wars and pandemics, emerging with lessons and stories to tell. The lesson here is a guarded optimism: no matter how bad things get, as long as there are people like Tom (or like today’s scientists, teachers, librarians, and everyday truth-seekers), there’s hope that knowledge and memory will carry on.
In summary, What We Can Know mirrors our world’s climate struggle, information challenges, and moral complexities. Its fictional scenario teaches us that the time to act responsibly is now, that truth should be cherished and protected, and that understanding one another – across any gulf of time or background – is key to our shared humanity. These real-world lessons make the novel not just a story to read, but a call to awareness and action.
Conclusion
Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know is a time-bending tale that packs a powerful message for the present. It reminds us that the line between fiction and reality can be thin when it comes to our world’s trajectory. At its heart, the book delivers a clear central message: knowledge is precious, but it’s also limited – and what we choose to do (or not do) with what we know defines our legacy. The novel confronts us with the idea that even in a world of data and facts, human understanding requires empathy and courage. We watch a future scholar piece together our era’s story, and it’s not only a mystery solved – it’s a verdict rendered on how we handled our biggest challenges and how we treated each other.
Why is this book still worth reading now? Because it speaks to now. What We Can Know is not just entertainment; it’s an invitation to reflect. It urges readers to look at the world around them – the melting ice, the cacophony of news, the private struggles behind public facades – and ask, what will endure? McEwan’s novel is still worth reading because it refuses to offer easy comfort. Instead, it offers truth in an artful package: the truth that our actions matter, that our love and follies echo beyond our time, and that the future is watching.
So, consider picking up this book or revisiting it with fresh eyes. Let it challenge your perspective and spark a conversation. After turning the last page, you might find yourself pondering the key question it raises: In the end, what will our descendants truly know about us, and will we be proud of what they learn? That question lingers, and it’s a conversation we should all be having – before it’s too late.
Read What We Can Know, share its story, and let its themes spur you to think about your own role in this unfolding history. Sometimes a novel can be more than a story – it can be a gentle call to action. This is one of those times.
