After a couple of hefty reads, I picked up The Sense of an Ending in large part for its size (163 pages) and this beautiful cover:

Why I thought the 2011 winner of the Man Booker Prize would be a light read beats the hell out of me. In the novel a sixty year old man – Anthony Webster – looks back at a key event in his life. We see his life before – school, friends, romance. Then we jump ahead forty years. That’s all I can say without giving away the plot.

The prose is lovely, beautiful even, and Barnes’ ruminations on time and memory ring true. Devastatingly true at times. But the life we are led through is intentionally unremarkable. Despite the beautiful sentences I found myself wanting to skim ahead. I just don’t care about dear Tony or his reflections enough.

I’m always glad to have read an award winning book so I am able to discuss it. The good. The bad. The merits of the award. Blah, blah, aren’t we smart literary folk. Now that I’ve read it, however, I see why it hasn’t come up in conversation before.

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