"Eastern to Mountain, third party call, the lines are down
The wise man built his words upon the rocks
But I'm not bound to follow suit
The trees will bend, the conversation's dimmed
Go build yourself another home, this choice isn't mine
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
- from "So. Central Rain (I'm sorry)" - R.E.M
Awarded with the Man Booker award for 2011, this is apparently 11th novel by the author under his own name - yet, my first reading experience of him. It is one of the more introspective novels that I've read to date ( there are more obvious ones in this league such as the Camus classic The Fall and Hesse's Steppenwolf ), and it adds value to the whole sense of introspection, by having a twist in the narration. It could even leave a message in the reader, as to how a well thought out "punch" - in contrast to a "heat of the moment" response, could lead to consequences that the deliverer of the "well thought of punch", never dreamed of . Upon discovery of the grave consequences, the architect of the "punch", is fated for a remorseful life, thereon. This book, made me reflect on the word, "remorse", deeply than before. Upon discovery of the consequences of his actions a good forty years back, the narrator reflects thus:
"And no, it wasn't shame I now felt, or guilt, but something rarer in my life and stronger than both: remorse. A feeling which is more complicated, curdled, and primeval. Whose chief characteristic is that nothing can be done about it: too much time has passed, too much damage has been done, for amends to be made."
Remorse is such a central theme in this book. And in this case, it hits at a moment when he has no one to depend on, and in old age. Just imagining the man's psyche is enough to bring the reader to down.
“What did I know of life, I who had lived so carefully? Who had neither won nor lost, but just let life happen to him? Who had the usual ambitions and settled all too quickly for them not being realised? Who avoided being hurt and called it a capacity for survival? Who paid his bills, stayed on good terms with everyone as far as possible, for whom ecstasy and despair soon became just words once read in novels? One whose self-rebukes never really inflicted pain? Well, there was all this to reflect upon, while I endured a special kind of remorse: a hurt inflicted at long last on one who always thought he knew how to avoid being hurt - and inflicted for precisely that reason.”
Upon reading this book, I thought a while as to how the author managed to present this sense of remorse so much success. It is not the plot, which makes so much of an impression on the reader. Sure, the plot is pretty good, and it serves as essential ingredients for the artistry of the author. Yes, it is the artistry of the author which makes the narrator's remorse leave the pages and hits us right between the eyes.“We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them.”
There are few books, which upon reading snare you up and dictating you that you must read more of the the author. Few authors have done this to me - Camus, Achebe, Dostoevsky definitely; Hemingway, Naipaul, Dickens, Coetzee, Rushdie and Greene to a lesser degree. But given the large number of good authors out there, I'd settle for reading the best book for each of them, and moving on. However I can state with certainty that I would read at least another of Barnes' books, and that may decide me escalating them to the second batch of authors mentioned above.
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