Is this a candid photo of author and show host Gerald Everett Jones? No. When I tried to grow a beard it never looked this good. This guy is probably about my age, though, and his is the mood I want to share with you – thinking about thinking. Thinking about writers and writing. Thinking about reading. And thinking on those thoughts and emotions that writing and reading stir in us.
So I’m starting a series of posts with my book reviews of literary fiction – the kind of stuff that, well, made me think.
My first suggestion is The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes. A few years ago, it won the Man Booker Prize. It was an inspiration for my own Clifford’s Spiral, which won Distinguished Favorite in the Independent Press Awards last year.
It’s about trying to make sense of what you remember about your life’s experiences.
You will either be fascinated by The Sense of an Ending, or it just might infuriate you.
Main character Tony Webster is middle-aged and reflecting back on his life. Just when he thinks he has it all sorted, he has to cope with troublesome consequences from choices he made as a young man. He has to face the possibility that he may have been responsible for his best friend’s death, and he may be the father of an illegitimate child.
The two people who know the facts are gone. The third isn’t talking, and her diary, which could have revealed everything, is probably lost.
Barnes shows us how Tony rewrites history so as to make himself the hero of his own story. Or, at the very least, justify his actions. And, so do all of us. Families, communities, and nations continually adjust the favorable light on their actions over time.
Why might you be infuriated? Because, bravely I think for an author, Barnes provides only the sense of an ending.
The following analysis won’t make any sense at all unless you’ve already read the book.
[So, quadruple spoiler alert!]
To recap, Tony was in love with Veronica and best friends with Adrian. Adrian married Veronica and then ended his own life. This much, Tony believes he knows. Adrian left a cryptic formula that may have been meant as a suicide note.
In terms of overt clues and Adrian’s equation, Adrian had an affair (perhaps not so brief, near the end of his life) with Veronica’s mother Sarah, who bore a child, also named Adrian, who was later sent (after Sarah’s death?) to a caregiver facility.
What nags at Tony at the end is that there are other possibilities that could fit the evidence better. Unless Veronica spills it, or the telltale diary is not burnt after all, Tony can never know for sure. In all scenarios he’s guilty, in some achingly more than in others.
The child could have been Veronica’s by Adrian or by Tony. The memory of a trip to the river seems to imply a night of unprotected, romantic sex. Sarah might have cared for the baby when Veronica couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Veronica’s pregnancy would have been when she and Adrian were newlyweds. He might have died thinking the baby was his. Or sure that it wasn’t. Or not sure at all and tormented by it.
Tony says the child (seen now as a young man) looks like the presumed father, his old friend Adrian. But did Tony look like Adrian? Is Tony looking into a mirror and denying the familiarity he sees? Is Tony’s remarking on the resemblance a clue to throw us off the track?
The child could have been Sarah’s by Tony. This strange possibility best explains: 1) Sarah’s bequest, 2) Veronica’s rage, and 3) Sarah’s enigmatic parting gesture to Tony, implying a secret they shared (that she’d seduced him during his visit). The fact that Tony has repressed the memory of the sex act (but not the washing up after) would seem totally implausible, except in the context of this book which is all about how our minds rewrite history to suit our opinion of ourselves.
You might well ask, “Huh?”
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