Signposts and footholds are scarce, and there are no chapter breaks or headings. No matter: Barnes is the most companionable of tour guides, quipping and joshing, recounting family stories, citing nineteenth-century French writers, and asking would-you-rather questions like a parlor gamester. The reader may ask, what do radio and TV have to do with all this? But wait—that field marshal turns up again pages later. When confronted with religious art, for example, his response is primarily aesthetic.
That remains a mystery, a complete unknown. Related Articles. At times this became almost comical and not just heartbreaking. Barnes tells us that when England "is abused, a dormant, not to say narcoleptic patriotism stirs," but his Englishness never sleeps. Reader Reviews Click here and be the first to review this book! Ya never know.
Can we think, as Richard Dawkins suggests, of the countless possible existences that never came to be and consider ourselves lucky to have had life at all? Small consolation. Tech news. Tech culture.
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'I don't believe in God, but I miss Him.' Julian Barnes' new book is, among many things, a family memoir, an exchange with his philosopher brother, a meditation on mortality and the fear of death, a celebration of art, an argument with and about. Start by marking “Nothing to Be Frightened of” as Want to Read: In this massive eructation of self-indulgent, rambling, repetitive prose, Julian Barnes contemplates his mortality. Despite the purgatorial length of this hideous hairball of a book, he never really arrives at any.
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