The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

Let me say I don't usually like male authors. This became apparent to me a few years ago when a friend asked what authors I liked to read and I realized I was listing mostly females. It hadn't occurred to me before, that's how slow I can be.

Since my awareness has been raised I'm more cognizant of whom I pick up when I read. So much to my surprise when I received a note that my book on hold at the Library was in that is was by a male author and a Brit at that.

I started reading it yesterday at 4:00 pm and finished it at 3 am. I did not read continuously, but awoke at 2 am and decided to finish it. The more I read it the more I liked it.

Here are a couple of excerpts:
pg. 75
The less time there remains iniyour life the less you want to waste it. That's logical isn't it? Though how you use the saved-up hours...well, that's another thing you probably wouldn't have predicted in youth. For instance, I spend a lot of time clearing things up _____and I'm not even a messy person. But it's one of the modest satisfactions of age. I aim for tidiness; I recycle; I clean and orate my flat to keep up its value. I've made my will; and my dealings with my daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren and ex-wife are, if less than perfect at least settled. Or so I'ver persuaded myself. I've achieved a state of peaceableness, even peacefulness. Because I got on with things. I don't like mess, and I don't like leaving a mess. I've opted for cremation, if you want to know.


I found myself agreeing with the main character a lot, as in the aforementioned excerpt. I don't like messy stuff and I find myself trying to "tidy" up my ends here at home, as if tomorrow may be my last. Somehow I don't want to leave a "mess' for my kids, but is that really possible? Life is messy.

I can't say I loved this book, but once I was in, I wanted to finish, to know what the end result would be. I was intrigued by the intellect of the author and thus his main character. Once I got the rhythm of the book I couldn't put it down.

Here's a passage I enjoyed on pg. 113 -
Does character develop over time? In novels, of course it does: otherwise there wouldn't be much of a story. But in life? I sometimes wonder. Our attitudes and opinions change, we develop new habits and eccentricities; but that's something different, more like decoration. Perhaps character resembles intelligence, except that character peaks a little later: between twenty and thirty, say. And after that, we're just stuck with what we've got. We're on our own. If so, that would explain a lot of lives, wouldn't it? And also _ if this isn't too grand a word - our tragedy.


Hmmm, are we stuck with our character? Can it evolve and change or are some things just surface decorations as he states? An interesting proposition.

Again, not probably on my top ten list, but I found it very intriguing.