Adventures in Modern Literature #1

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

With the 2012 Man Booker Prize longlist recently announced, what better way to start this series than with last year's winner. Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending is a slight novel that deals with weighty themes, and for the most part does so effectively. The first chapter tells the story of a group of young men who stand on the precipice of adulthood, narrated in the present day by Tony Webster, who has retired and thus has plenty of time to think about the past. However, it turns out these breezy recollections are but a precursor to the second chapter, which suggests that everything we thought we knew may be wrong, with the twist being that due to the inherent unreliability of memory, and the tendency we all have to shape past events to suit the narrative we most want them to tell, Tony may not have told the story to a very high degree of accuracy.

It's a clever move that questions the way we remember our lives, offering an interesting take on the unreliable narrator trope. The shift in gears between the two chapters is pronounced, with the novel switching from an amiable ramble through one man's adolescence to a thriller (albeit a sedentary one) with a mystery at its heart. The story becomes more and more engaging as its true nature slowly unravels, with Barnes masterfully building suspense ahead of the final revelation.

Alas, the ending doesn't live up to the build. The tales hinges so entirely on what is best described as an adolescent mistake (of the sort that all of us have or will make from time to time) that its impact is dulled. Of course we'll one day look back on the actions of our younger self and think "wow, I was a bit of an idiot when I was younger." I'm 27 years old and am already plenty familiar with that feeling. If you're going to worry about actions or words some 40 years removed, they need to be earth-shattering, and a nasty letter doesn't meet the criteria. The words he penned were cutting, and more than a little cruel, but they were also fuelled by emotions he was only just learning how to process. The events that unfold (unbeknownst to him) after he sends the letter are unfortunate to say the least; however, he was but one small player in a much wider story, and didn't force anyone to make the choices they did. Put simply, whilst I fully believed that the character felt his past actions were unforgivable, I didn't believe they were myself, which rather fatally undermined my reaction to the revelation.

And then there's Veronica. An ex-girlfriend of Tony's who re-enters (and massively complicates) his peaceful retirement, Veronica is a thoroughly unlikable character whose actions both as an adolescent and as an adult have an artificiality that grates every time she's called into action. She keeps up the pretence of being unknowable for so long that the question becomes not "what happened to make her this way?" but "why would anyone stick around her long enough to find out?" Aside from being a cheap narrative device designed to maintain suspense, having someone repeat variations on "you don't understand and you never will" is a surefire way of turning the reader against them, as it casts the character in question as an irritating barrier to plot advancement (1). By the time she finally becomes knowable (when the reason for her present day coldness is made clear) I disliked her so much that it didn't really matter; it was going to take one hell of a reveal to explain away her vast pettiness, and the reason given wasn't good enough. All of us suffer over the course of our lives, but few can justifiably cling on to hurt revolving around one specific incident for 40 years, and in the end Veronica had no-one to blame for her unhappiness but herself.

So does a denouement that falls flat completely undermine everything that preceded it? In this case, I'd argue not quite, that the journey is as important as the final revelation, and although the behaviour of Tony and Veronica is at times ridiculous, it strains suspension of disbelief rather than shattering it. Barnes offers an interesting take on both memory and the aging process, crafting characters that for the most part are recognisably human and marrying them to a tale that starts off deceptively light before moving on to heavier themes. And in one respect, its brevity works in its favour; had the revelation come at the end of 300+ pages, it would have been a crushing disappointment. Instead, it is merely a minor note in an otherwise impressive work. The precision and economy of the writing stands out above all else, with Barnes rarely wasting a word on unnecessary flourishes but still creating something that is, at times, almost lyrical (2), and rarely less than engaging.

Worth reading?: Yes. Whilst no classic, The Sense of an Ending raises some interesting questions, and is likely to linger in the memory for some time after you put it down. Just don't assume you can trust your recollections of it.

(1) Another problem: after about the third time of Veronica repeating the words, Tony's refusal to tackle her on it became infuriating, and made him more unlikable too.

(2) It could be argued that this becomes distracting on occasion; critic Stephen Lee had a point when he suggested that it "occasionally feels more like a series of wise, underline-worthy insights than a novel."