Finished reading The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes.
The novel consists of the ruminations of an old man, Tony, who in his youth had a philosophical friend, Adrian, and a posh girlfriend, Veronica, who was quite high-maintenance and, at times, a downright moron. Now in his old age the events surrounding the ending of his, to my mind, quite meh relationship with Veronica, come back to haunt him. After all these years he now comes to the realization that, after Adrian and Veronica subsequently hooked up, he was a bit of a dick to them. He even went so far as to curse them in a letter written while he was still bitter and very drunk. That is why he never remembered its exact terms. Only now, as Veronica sends it back to him, is he faced with how he unwittingly spelled out the tragedies which would befall his ex-friend and his ex-girlfriend.
Tony is left Adrian’s old diary in inheritance by Veronica’s mother. He learns that Veronica is now keeping the diary, so he doggedly pesters his former love interest to obtain possession of what he feels is his rightful bequest. So, pestered to death and royally pissed off, Veronica reluctantly agrees to a reunion. She then proceeds to immediately make him the target of the anger she has apparently been feeling all these years. It is quite unfair, the way I see it, as well as stupid that Tony buys into this complete and utter tosh. And feels any measure of guilt to boot! All he did was write a foolish tirade. On the other hand, serves him right, if you ask me. Shouldn’t he have let sleeping dogs lie, as his no-nonsense ex-wife Margaret advised? The same ex-wife who, rightly so, termed Veronica as the Fruitcake?
What happened upon, one can only presume, the reception of said letter, namely, Adrian’s shagging of Veronica’s slut of a mother included, can hardly be chalked up to Tony’s powers of persuasion (or wizardry). However, he ends up believing that, had he not suggested in that letter of doom that Adrian pay a visit to the MILF, the chain of events culminating in the young man’s suicide, the birth of a feeble-minded bastard, let alone Veronica being left bitter and eaten up by regret for life -was, somehow, his responsibility. Wow.
That’s how novels are made, I suppose. You think up a premise, even though any sensible person might find it dubious, and upon it you build a story, and make it credible in that the reader is sneakily mesmerised into giving up their own judgement in favour of the twisted logic that the writer is concocting.
Barnes, in my opinion, succeeds in dragging my reason, albeit somewhat kicking and screaming, into his frame of thought, namely, that an average individual might feel entitled to the godlike role of having determined the course of, at least, three lives, all at a stroke of a pen writing a letter (and a few beers). So, alcohol and the power of the written word, those might be two of the themes here.
Another theme might very well be class struggle, as enacted here by posh Veronica refusing goods (full sex in this case) to working-class Tony. She then goes on to bestow those same goods on her social class compatriot Adrian. Years later, ever the mysterious withholding bitch, she still manages to make Tony feel guilty for all the melodramatic shenanigans Adrian, her family and herself engaged in. Pampered by life from birth, she just could not wrap her mind around the fact that maybe, just maybe, Adrian had only himself to blame. This she could not accept, as she might have come to see Adrian as an extension of herself, so if she was unblameable, so was her boyfriend, no matter how badly he strayed, no matter how royally he fucked things up. So she had to find the uncouth working-class scapegoat and upgrade his minor crime of drunken logorrhea to that of murder by letter.
The scapegoat, undramatic, average Tony, immediately gets caught in the fabric of this alternative reality that Veronica is weaving for him, or should I say, walks by his own volition right into it, mesmerised by its undertones of mystery, tragedy and unfinished love issues. Also, he’s approaching death and might feel this is his last chance at experiencing something akin to excitement and adventure.
What he ends up feeling is, mostly, remorse, made worse by the absence of any solace which the unveiling of the mysteries might have brought him. As I rate its five stars on the device, I can picture Tony pensively nursing a glass of whisky, sitting in his armchair next to a garden window so as to catch the last rays of sunset. Does he deserve such a conventional, slightly unkind, parting shot? He very much does. Such a sucker!