My goal is to read a novel a week in 2015. I’ve made it to 15.

Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

I saw this one on a book list and thought it looked interesting. It is indeed.

The story follows a group of friends passing from adolescence into adulthood. The focus narrows to a couple of relationships: boyfriend/girlfriend; breakup; girlfriend begins dating ex-boyfriends friend; enmity and bitterness ensue.

Tony, the main character and narrator, is he boyfriend who is quasi betrayed. He writes a scathing letter to his former-friend, who is now dating his ex-girlfriend. He has no idea of the prophetic powers carried by his own words of cursing.

The book is an intriguing exploration of the power of words in the form of self-fulfilling prophecies and maledictions. It reminds us to choose our words wisely. I’ve heard someone say that we should make our words soft and sweet in case we later have to eat them; but the fact of the matter is that others have to eat our words all the time, even when we ourselves don’t have to.

The story is also an interesting look at how we remember our own lives. The book is filled with flitting memories and self-conscious introspection: am I remembering that event rightly or is my memory only serving my own self interest? Why do I suddenly remember things that had been suppressed from the memory for so long? The theme of such remembering is introduced in a maxim about history that is repeated throughout the book:

History is the certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.

History, the narrator says, is much easier to study when it is distant:

Perhaps I just feel safer with the history that’s been more or less agreed upon. Or perhaps it’s that same paradox again: the history that happens underneath our noses ought to be the clearest, and yet it’s the most deliquescent.

The big question the narrator is faced with is his own failure to accomplish anything in life. His friend had committed suicide, which was, perhaps, a valiant act. What had he ever done besides accumulate dust?:

We muddle along, we let life happen to us, we gradually build up a store of memories. There is the question of accumulation, but not in the sense that Adrian meant, just the simple adding up and adding on of life. And as the poet pointed out, there is a difference between addition and increase. Had my life increased, or merely added to itself?

That suicide turns out to not be quite so valiant as he thought, but I won’t get into that. Let me point out a couple more highlights:

Barnes uses beautiful descriptive language. Like the way he describes a suburb:

They lived in Kent, out on the Orpington line, in one of those suburbs which had stopped concreting over nature at the very last minute, and ever since smugly claimed rural status.

Or the way he describes a woman’s choice of shoes:

I wondered about the fact that she never wore heels of any height. I’d read somewhere that if you want to make people pay attention to what you’re saying, you don’t raise your voice but lower it: this is what really commands attention. Perhaps hers was a similar kind of trick with height.

Aside from a surprise ending that will leave you reeling and make you want to go back and read the story again to see what you have missed, the main things I’ll take away from this book are the power and subjectivity of memory, and the power of words. The story ends with unrest. The Hebrews have always spoken shabbot (rest) and shalom (peace). Speak words of blessing. Keep your words soft and sweet because people are constantly eating them whether you yourself have to or not.