Dolores López had been recommending this book for years now, Raquel Pastoriza had read Love, etc. a while ago and also thought I would enjoy it... and finally, I found the time for Julian Barnes (1946) in my life. It did not disappoint.
The Sense of an Ending is a short novel where Anthony "Tony" Webster, a middle-aged man, reflects on his 1960s' schooldays with his clique and his gang of friends, followed by university, marriage, fatherhood and divorce. It may seem like Tony had a respectable life and he is a decent person. However, a letter from the past shatters this seeming respectability and moral uprightness, confronting him with the consequences of his thoughtless behavior and de-stabilising his perception of himself and his past.
The novel addresses serious, poignant themes: the dark side of love, our capacity for jealousy, obsessions, the quest for authentic love, one's memories and sense of self.
Barnes' prose is elegant (he was a lexicographer, and you can tell), witty and playful, employing postmodern writing techniques - an unreliable narrator, a self-conscious linguistic style, a mix of different narrative forms- all of which contribute to highlight the subjectivity of "truth" and "reality".
I absolutely loved the underlying psychological realism of the novel, especially when dealing with the construction of memories, or rather, reconstruction, coloring those memories with bits of life experiences, and integrating things we do remember in detail with things that are generally true. Tony warns us about this manipulation throughout the book, from page 1. We are all susceptible to having "false memories", memory distortions:
"... what you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed" (p. 3)
"History is that certainty produced at the the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation" (p. 16)
"I must stress that this is my reading now of what happened then. Or rather, my memory now of my reading then of what was happening at the time" (p. 41)
"We were already turning our past into anecdote" (p. 53)
"History isn't the lies of the victors (...) It's more the memories of the survivors, most of whom are neither victorious nor defeated" (p. 56)
"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" (p. 88)
"How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts?" (p. 95)
"My brain must have erased it from the record, but now I knew it for a fact" (p. 119)
"(...) something else - happens to the memory over time. For years you survive with the same loops, the same facts and the same emotions" (p. 120)
"We live in time - it holds us and moulds us - but I've never felt I understood it very well" (p. 3)
Letters, e-mails and written communication are key in the book, provoking a plot twist, leading to a reexamination of previous concepts or memories or asking for help in a quest:
(about Robson's suicide note) "As for his suicide note, which according to rumor (Brown again) read "Sorry, Mum" , we felt that it had missed a powerful educative opportunity" (p. 14)
"We wrote letters to one another, as people - even the young did in those days (...) And writing to ano another seemed to have recalibrated the dynamics of our relationship" (p. 19)
"In the second week of the summer vacation a letter arrived with a Chislehurst postmark. I inspected the unfamiliar handwriting - looping and slightly careles- on the envelope" (p. 38)
"About halfway through my final year, I got a letter from Adrian" (p. 40)
"I took the nearest postcard to hand (...) [and] burnt his letter in an empty grate (melodramatic, I agree" (p. 42)
"It was one of those long white envelopes with my name and address shown on a window" (p. 62)
"Dear Veronica", I began, "Your brother has kindly given me your email address..." (p. 80)
"I knew it was authentic. Adrian wrote in a distinctive italic hand with an eccentric 'g'" (p. 85)
"Imagine someone, ate at night, a bit drunk, writing a letter to an old girlfriend. He addresses the envelope, puts on a stamp, finds his coat, walks to the postbox, shoves the letter into it, walks home and goes to bed" (p. 105)
"History is that certainty produced at the the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation" (p. 16)
"I must stress that this is my reading now of what happened then. Or rather, my memory now of my reading then of what was happening at the time" (p. 41)
"We were already turning our past into anecdote" (p. 53)
"History isn't the lies of the victors (...) It's more the memories of the survivors, most of whom are neither victorious nor defeated" (p. 56)
"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" (p. 88)
"How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts?" (p. 95)
"My brain must have erased it from the record, but now I knew it for a fact" (p. 119)
"(...) something else - happens to the memory over time. For years you survive with the same loops, the same facts and the same emotions" (p. 120)
"We live in time - it holds us and moulds us - but I've never felt I understood it very well" (p. 3)
Letters, e-mails and written communication are key in the book, provoking a plot twist, leading to a reexamination of previous concepts or memories or asking for help in a quest:
(about Robson's suicide note) "As for his suicide note, which according to rumor (Brown again) read "Sorry, Mum" , we felt that it had missed a powerful educative opportunity" (p. 14)
"We wrote letters to one another, as people - even the young did in those days (...) And writing to ano another seemed to have recalibrated the dynamics of our relationship" (p. 19)
"In the second week of the summer vacation a letter arrived with a Chislehurst postmark. I inspected the unfamiliar handwriting - looping and slightly careles- on the envelope" (p. 38)
"About halfway through my final year, I got a letter from Adrian" (p. 40)
"I took the nearest postcard to hand (...) [and] burnt his letter in an empty grate (melodramatic, I agree" (p. 42)
"It was one of those long white envelopes with my name and address shown on a window" (p. 62)
"Dear Veronica", I began, "Your brother has kindly given me your email address..." (p. 80)
"I knew it was authentic. Adrian wrote in a distinctive italic hand with an eccentric 'g'" (p. 85)
"Imagine someone, ate at night, a bit drunk, writing a letter to an old girlfriend. He addresses the envelope, puts on a stamp, finds his coat, walks to the postbox, shoves the letter into it, walks home and goes to bed" (p. 105)
The novel is really short, but the story unfolds slowly. It is intentionally ambiguous at times as Barnes explores choices we make, different levels of responsibility, being human and the effects of time on one’s memory. And by the end of the book we couldn't agree more with the last sentence:
"There is accumulation. There is responsibility. And beyond these, there is unrest. There is great unrest" (p. 150)
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