The Sense of an Ending

by Julian Barnes

We were essentially taking the piss, except when we were serious. He was essentially serious, except when he was taking the piss. It took us a while to work this out.

‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.’ ” “Is it, indeed? Where did you find that?”

And then there is the question, on which so much depends, of how we react to the damage: whether we admit it or repress it, and how this affects our dealings with others. Some admit the damage, and try to mitigate it; some spend their lives trying to help others who are damaged; and then there are those whose main concern is to avoid further damage to themselves, at whatever cost. And those are the ones who are ruthless, and the ones to be careful of.

But you find yourself repeating, “They grow up so quickly, don’t they?” when all you really mean is: time goes faster for me nowadays.

And that’s a life, isn’t it? Some achievements and some disappointments.

It’s been interesting to me, though I wouldn’t complain or be amazed if others found it less so.

“History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”

perhaps it’s that same paradox again: the history that happens underneath our noses ought to be the clearest, and yet it’s the most deliquescent.

We end up all belonging to the same category, that of the non-young.

Had my life increased, or merely added to itself?

our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.

I had wanted life not to bother me too much, and had succeeded—and how pitiful that was.

There seems no way of accessing anything else; the case is closed. Which is why you seek corroboration, even if it turns out to be contradiction.

And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.