Scan barcode
A review by grgrhnt
The Only Story by Julian Barnes
3.0
Barnes uses Samuel Johnson's definition of a novel as an epigraph.
Novel (n.): A small tale, generally of love.
The story does satisfy this definition. But lacks when it comes to the adjective form of its meaning. 'Novel' when used as an adjective meaning something new. The Only Story is no something new. It is written for the sake of writing and whatever illuminatory sentences it provides come forth because of the skill of this eminent author. Of course, there are all of those Britishisms that rouse a sense of worldly participation in a foreign reader and pull them towards the end of the story.
There is nothing new here. And if the reader's read Barnes' most famous book The Sense of An Ending, it seems even repetitive theme-wise. The themes of time, memory, nature of love, Oedipal relations and the struggles and comforts of ageing have all been explored before to great satisfaction by the Barnes himself. That's why I've come to make the accusation of repetition.
Does the book satiate those of us who still wonder about and pursue the meaning of love? No, it treads the same old path of nebulosity that things concerning love take. Within the text itself, the idea of the undefinability of love is addressed. It follows the same bromides and presents the opposition of those bromides as real truth, which in themselves, after years of exploration and re-exploration, have turned into bromides themselves.
One thing I liked about the book was the dialogue, but that's expected of Barnes. It doesn't have the depth or scope of The Sense of An Ending, but it does have a real ring to it. The prose is classic Barnes. Overall, the book is just a good read that won't last long in the annals of memory.
Novel (n.): A small tale, generally of love.
The story does satisfy this definition. But lacks when it comes to the adjective form of its meaning. 'Novel' when used as an adjective meaning something new. The Only Story is no something new. It is written for the sake of writing and whatever illuminatory sentences it provides come forth because of the skill of this eminent author. Of course, there are all of those Britishisms that rouse a sense of worldly participation in a foreign reader and pull them towards the end of the story.
There is nothing new here. And if the reader's read Barnes' most famous book The Sense of An Ending, it seems even repetitive theme-wise. The themes of time, memory, nature of love, Oedipal relations and the struggles and comforts of ageing have all been explored before to great satisfaction by the Barnes himself. That's why I've come to make the accusation of repetition.
Does the book satiate those of us who still wonder about and pursue the meaning of love? No, it treads the same old path of nebulosity that things concerning love take. Within the text itself, the idea of the undefinability of love is addressed. It follows the same bromides and presents the opposition of those bromides as real truth, which in themselves, after years of exploration and re-exploration, have turned into bromides themselves.
One thing I liked about the book was the dialogue, but that's expected of Barnes. It doesn't have the depth or scope of The Sense of An Ending, but it does have a real ring to it. The prose is classic Barnes. Overall, the book is just a good read that won't last long in the annals of memory.