The Sense of an Ending

Julian Barnes

First Sentence:   I remember, in no particular order:

- a shiny inner wrist;

- steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;

- gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;

- a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing torchbeams;

- another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;

- bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.

And so begins Julian Barnes’ newest piece of fiction. This is his 11th novel and is one of his slimmest books. That’s not to say it is lacking anything, rather it is an exquisitely crafted book where no sentence goes to waste. Ostensibly it tells the tale of Tony Webster, now a retired divorcé looking back on his younger self and his previous relationships. When he is bequeathed a small sum of money from an unexpected source he is drawn back to his life as a young man. It is however, so much more than that. It is a meditation on history, on memory, and on the unreliability of both.  As is mentioned in the book on a couple of occasions, history is the lies of victors. But also, the self-delusions of the defeated. It is this uncertainty that carries the story along as we are never fully aware of what actually happened, and what was only imagined or misremembered. The focal point of the book is centred around Tony’s first girlfriend Veronica, and one weekend in particular when he goes to stay in Veronica’s family home. (In some ways this is reminiscent of Cecil Valance when he goes to stay at Two Acres in The Stranger’s Child  as this also proves to be a weekend revisited and reconstructed again and again in the minds of all the characters involved.) Most of this weekend has become blurred by time for Tony. In fact:

I was so ill at ease that I spent the entire weekend constipated: this is my principal factual memory. The rest consists of impressions and half-memories which may therefore be self-serving [...]

It is this problem, or rather this honesty that gives the book its charm and it is also this confusion that adds to our sense of intrigue when we are reading. We are never fully sure what to believe when we are told:

Again, 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.

Overall, this is a great book and a thoroughly enjoyable read.

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Letters to Emma Bowlcut

Bill Callahan

First Sentence:  The world had gone quiet around me.

I get a little apprehensive when musicians try their hand at writing books. Sometimes the results are almost better than their music (see Willy Vlautin) but that’s the exception rather than the rule and more often than not I get the feeling that they should just stick to what they do best. After reading Bill Callahan’s book I’m glad to say that it’s not a bad effort, but I’m sure his music will prove to have a longer lasting legacy. This is an epistolary novel (though at only 77 pages I use the term loosely) written from an unnamed man to Emma Bowlcut, but you probably could have guessed that from the title. The writer of these letters is attracted to Emma when he sees her at a party and begins writing to her. The 62 letters presented here are undated and Emma’s replies are absent. Callahan’s writing verges on poetry at times, and several sentences found in this book could easily be future lyrics/song titles:

I’m not exaggerating when I say I mostly stare.

Struck by something trying to get out from within.

I’m empty from bawling.

I would say if you like Bill Callahan’s music, chances are you’ll like this. If not though, it’s probably not worth your time. Me, I can take it or leave both…

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Brodeck’s Report

Philippe Claudel

First Sentence:   My name is Brodeck and I had nothing to do with it.

This book won the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in 2010. Like Monsieur Linh  and His Child it is set in an unnamed place, though it does not take long to deduce that the time is not long after World War Two, and the place is some remote French village. The protagonist and narrator, Brodeck, has returned from a concentration camp and usually spends his days doing up reports on the local flora and fauna. All is as it should be in this peaceful village until the Anderer (the ‘other’ / the ‘foreigner’) arrives and unsettles the local community. One night the men of the village kill this Anderer and Brodeck, being a man of letters, is called upon to present a report of the killing to the mayor. As he investigates, he uncovers dark truths about our fear of anything different. This almost reads like a fable, and really, time and place are irrelevant with a book like this because the lessons learned could be applied to anyone, anywhere, at any time. This book is sometimes dark, often rambling, but never dull and is definitely worthy of its reputation. Though personally, I preferred Monsieur Linh…

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I Am a Japanese Writer

Dany LaFerriere

First Sentence:  My publisher called while I was out buying fresh salmon.

A French-speaking black Haitian-Canadian decides to call his new book I am a Japanese Writer and as a result he gets a substantial advance from his publishers and becomes something of a celebrity. Especially in Japan. And why not? It’s a great title. It’s one of those titles that instantly makes me want to read the entire book ( LaFerriere seems to have a thing for great titles, eg Dining with the Dictator and How to Make Love to a Negro Without Getting Tired ) and going by the title alone I decided to give it a go. It’s unfortunate but I have to say that the title is the best part of this book. It’s just trying that little too hard to be clever and as a result, in my opinion, falls flat on its face. It’s all very self-reverential and aware of itself and lacking in plot like a lot of literary fiction, but whereas other books like this, such as If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller  can get away with it because of the wonderful writing, I found myself tiring of this one after about twenty pages or so. Maybe something was lost in translation, or maybe it was just lost on me, but either way I was more than a little disappointed by this book. A great title though.

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Solace

Belinda McKeon

First Sentence:   It had been years since Tom’s son had spent so long at home.

I got a proof of this book back in April and read it straight away as I knew it was a book we’d be hearing a lot about this year. At the time I wasn’t fully sure how I felt about the book and if I’m telling the truth, nothing’s changed in the last four months. I still don’t know how I feel. This is a strange novel. On the one hand it is clear to anyone who reads this that McKeon is a wonderfully gifted writer, and it is an extremely enjoyable experience to read her prose. It’s just that it’s very difficult to get excited about this sort of book. At least I think so anyway. It just doesn’t fizz and crackle. And that’s fine, I guess, because it’s not supposed to fizz and crackle. It is lovely, the writing  glows, it has warmth and charm in abundance, it is clearly highly accomplished and full of subtlety and restraint and yet also, just whisper it, ever so slightly dull.  With a little bit more drama this could have been a winner and I can understand the lavish praise being heaped on this book by her fellow writers as it really is full of gorgeous writing and yet, all the quotes adorning the jacket are filled with words like ‘heartfelt’, ‘quiet’, ‘careful’, ‘lovely’, and ‘elegant’, descriptions I’m in full agreement with, but for me I hope for just that little bit more from a novel. As it is, it is certainly a wonderful debut and McKeon is a writer I’m sure I’ll be reading again in the future. I’m just not convinced this one is essential reading.

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