The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes – A Book Review

Do you remember your first kiss? Not a peck on the cheek; the real thing! I do. That memory of mine is so distinctly etched within the complexities of the brain that when I want to voluntarily remember and revive it, it gushes like an unstoppable river with an indefinable urgency. And I am not surprised at my analogy of a river; it is only natural because a river it was, rather the rocky banks of it where it happened. She was sitting beside me as we went on with our idiosyncrasies when a soft noise behind alerted us both and we turned almost at the same time and in doing so our cheeks brushed. Our cheeks brushed but our hearts thumped by that slight touch and I can never forget that longing, vulnerable and effusive look in her eyes, nor can I forget the inevitable fear and the simmering blood in me from the sudden adrenaline rush. It happened in a jiffy, the converging of our shaky lips, the urgency to taste, to suck, to slither and probe unknown corners within the small room of the mouth. Maybe it was the inexperience that had the lasting effect of this trembling and groping memory.

            And then years later, I met her yesterday at a reunion. We had broken up a long time back and I thought she would give me the cold shoulder but when we met, she was pleasant and smiled. She introduced me to her husband and when he left, the cunning person that I am, I tried to remind her of our first kiss on the rocks. She made a face as if someone had shoved a frog in her mouth – “Grow up, she said, we never went beyond holding hands, you never had the courage and I left you precisely for that lack of passion, so stop making stories and being a loser” – and she walked away, disgusted.

            “Liar!” I wanted to scream. Was I lying, couldn't be. I tried to go back to that day yet again in my mind, but it was not easy this time, I couldn't hear the sound behind us, I felt the palpitation but the look in her eyes were missing.  So then, was she right? Where did the glorified memory come from then, which I colored so frequently? Was it a fragment then, that I had invented and made myself believe in by forced repetition, a heroic act I was incapable of? Or had memory failed me? I felt like a fool, rather lost….

“And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our accounts, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but – mainly – to ourselves.”

Memories - a strong part of our existence. How much can we rely on them? How much of it happens and how much of it is created? What part of it is lost on us? And how much do we remember? Would life be the same when we realize the memories we have been nurturing are mere figments of our imagination? Julian Barnes plays and puzzles us over the meandering streams of sprawling memories and leaves you amazed and helpless and lost. I loved the matter-of-fact and witty writing style and from the very first page; it was a delight as the curtains unraveled to the mysteries and failures of the mind.

“But time…..how time first grounds us and then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being safe.”

This is the life of Tony Webster and he begins his tale from his school days. His close pals Colin, Alex and Adrian, the new boy, like all from that difficult age, are struggling to find answers, delving into their own theories and are being happily convinced and content by their own arguments; anarchists in their own right. In all this, the new boy Adrian Finn is being looked upon by the trio as a thinker, as having a mind who doesn't accept without reason or principles; any form of rebellion is good in that age, more true of the mind and thoughts. The suicide of Robson, one of the school boys after having got his girlfriend pregnant shatters the entire school and our quartet of philosophical thinkers concludes that the act ‘was unphilosophical, self-indulgent and inartistic: in other words wrong.’

After the friends go their own ways to different universities, Tony falls for Veronica, a stubborn girl, but not for long as they go separate ways and as if to mock Tony, to make him realize how inappropriate he was, she hooks his best friend Adrian. Before Tony’s break up however, he visits Veronica’s family, which he finds to be substantially erratic except for her mother who warns him against giving much leeway to her daughter. Tony wonders what she means by that. Adrian being the gentleman that he is, seeks permission from Tony for his courtship with Veronica through a letter and Veronica is part of that letter. Tony writes back his consent and it is forgotten. Until the suicide of Adrian at Veronica’s place comes as a blow and Tony is sure that the disturbed Veronica is to blame.

“It strikes me that this may be one of the differences between youth and age; when we are young we invent different futures for ourselves; when we are old, we invent different pasts for ourselves.”

Tony is now retired, divorced, life is monotonous but not mundane. The clear waters are again rippled when he receives an envelope from a solicitor; Sarah Ford, now deceased, according to her will has left him five hundred pounds, a note and Adrians diary, which is conveniently missing from the envelope. Sarah Ford is Veronica’s mother and the last line of her note is pretty disturbing – “P.S. It may sound odd, but I think the last months of his (Adrian’s) life were happy.”

Why did Adrian choose to leave his diary to him, why did Veronica steal it, what was in it that she didn't want him to read. This begins his quest for the last belonging of his friend Adrian. Veronica plays her own games to keep it away from him but does send him a copy of a letter; the same letter Tony had written to Adrian and Veronica years ago granting them permission to go on. That he is shattered on reading his own writing would be a much suppressed adjective. He gets lost on himself. Was he lying to himself all these years or was it his own failing memory stabbing him wholeheartedly, or did he push himself to believe what he thought was a fact? The quest for these answers, the truth, the need to be set free, to unwind, to remember, to obliterate the shades of grey takes him yet again to Veronica and what he learns, not through her though feels like a hard punch which knocks the air out of him. Adrian Finn, you were something, weren't you – as the friends would have put “That is philosophically self-evident.”

I already want to read this book again.

P.S.: The I and she in the first 3 paragraphs are purely fictional characters!

My Rating : * * * * * * * * * * - 9/10

Julian Barnes