A crown of sonnets or sonnet corona is a sequence of sonnets
in which each of the sonnets is linked to the preceding and succeeding
sonnets by repeating the final line of the preceding sonnet as its first line.
The first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the final line of the final sonnet, thereby bringing the sequence to a close.
(From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

On an October evening in 2014, a gathering of friends is dining in a renovated barn in the countryside, celebrating Vivien Blundy’s birthday. Her husband, the great British poet Francis Blundy, presents his gift to her: a corona of fifteen sonnets that is read aloud by Francis. After the reading, he rolls and laces the paper and gives it to Vivien. Drafts have been disposed of, and no other copies have been produced, since it was meant to be a unique gift for his wife only.
One hundred years later, a literary scholar, Tom, is trying to find the poem. The corona was never published, but it has somehow been kept alive for decades in the imaginary of the people as a masterpiece celebrating long-lasting love and the beauty of nature. Apart from Vivien, no one has ever read any of the verses, and the mystery about such an important piece in Blundy’s work haunts Tom. /Even though he has access to all the letters, emails and journals of the people who listened to Francis that night, he can find no trace of the poem.
In this new novel, Ian McEwan explores our own present as an object of study, admiration, and even envy from the perspective of future generations. In a twenty-second century where the previous century’s excesses have finally impacted on the level of the sea, natural resources and even the number of humans alive, our protagonist lives entirely among archives filled with a mixture of digital and analog data, in a never-ending search for a world that no longer exists but in his mind.
It comes without warning, like a slap – a nostalgia, though that can hardly be the word for a place I never saw. But it strikes, deep in my chest, a curious pleasure-pain of longing, delight, sadness. I think those who love our accumulated centuries of literature feel this most.
This longing for what was never known and is lost needs its word, something beyond nostalgia, which pines for what was once known.
This nostalgia for what has never been known has a twist in the novel because, as a thought experiment, we might want to travel back to a previous time in search of a life that looks enticing, but deep down we know that life is better in our present time. However, the fictional people in this twenty-second century have really lost the quality of life that is at its peak in our present: the landscape, the natural world, the interconnectedness of people all over the world. Tom marvels at the journal’s every detail of the abundance that surrounds us today — the cuisine, the road trips — and even falls in love with these people of the past, who lived in an idyllic scenery and wrote his favorite poems. It makes you wonder what of we delight in now is likely to disappear in the future.
The novel also explores the traces we leave behind for posterity, and how they can tell — or not — our story. To what extent can some stranger really know us by reading our emails and journal entries? Is our memory reliable? And: who are we writing for? Do we want to impress someone by presenting a beautified version of ourselves? Vivien Blundy soon becomes the main source of information, her being both the inspiration and the recipient of the corona. Tom presents us with his theory about the birthday dinner based on her data and the reader wants to be convinced, since he is a scholar, the man who has probably acquired the most complete knowledge of the Blundys; but the shadow of his unreliability as a narrator pervades through the lines because, what can he know?
Memory is a sponge. It soaks up material from other times, other places and leaks it all over the moment in question. Its unreliability was one of the discoveries of twentieth-century psychology. That did not stop people from relying on their own or from believing in the recollections of others, if it suited.
Finally, the author, after all the speculation within the probable, gives the reader their final reward: the truth. Or, at least, Vivien’s truth. Minor and major details that we thought we knew are refuted or confirmed by her own account, in an ending that, again, makes you wonder what you can know about anyone, or anything. We can only grasp at versions of every story, but the depth of the conversations, the silences, or the feelings involved in a particular moment will remain a mystery.
Nearly all of life is forgotten.
In summary, you will find a novel that explores facts, memory and interpretations, like many of the other McEwan’s stories, together with a scholarly treasure-hunt into the past, resembling A. S. Byatt’s Possession, at the end of which one only truth remains: literature is inherent to the human condition, opening up layers of meaning and reflection for us to reach through the centuries.

What We Can Know
Ian McEwan
Hardcover 2025, Knopf
ISBN: 9780593804728
303 pages












