'So Barnes turns toward the strict regime of science and here is little comfort indeed. We are all dying. Even the sun is dying. Homo sapiens is evolving toward some species that won't care about us whatsoever and our art and literature and scholarship will fall into utter oblivion. Every author will eventually become an unread author. And then humanity will die out and beetles will rule the world. A man can fear his own death but what is he anyway? Simply a mass of neurons. The brain is a lump of meat and the soul is merely "a story the brain tells itself." Individuality is an illusion. Scientists find no physical evidence of "self" — it is something we've talked ourselves into. We do not produce thoughts, thoughts produce us. "The 'I' of which we are so fond properly exists only in grammar." Stripped of the Christian narrative, we gaze out on a landscape that, while fascinating, offers nothing that one could call Hope. (Barnes refers to "American hopefulness" with particular disdain.)'
'"There is no separation between 'us' and the universe." We are simply matter, stuff. "Individualism — the triumph of free-thinking artists and scientists — has led to a state of self-awareness in which we can now view ourselves as units of genetic obedience."'
'All true so far as it goes, perhaps, but so what? Barnes is a novelist and what gives this book life and keeps the reader happily churning forward is his affection for the people who wander in and out, Grandma Scoltock in her hand-knitted cardigan reading The Daily Worker and cheering on Mao Zedong,while Grandpa watched "Songs of Praise" on television, did woodwork and raised dahlias, and killed chickens with a green metal machine screwed to the doorjam that wrung their necks. The older brother who teaches philosophy, keeps llamas and likes to wear knee breeches, buckle shoes, a brocade waistcoat. We may only be units of genetic obedience, but we do love to look at each other. Barnes tells us he keeps in a drawer his parents' stuff, all of it, their scrapbooks, ration cards, cricket score cards, Christmas card lists, certificates of Perfect Attendance, a photo album of 1913 entitled "Scenes From Highways & Byways," old postcards ("We arrived here safely, and, except for the ham sandwiches, we were satisfied with the journey"). The simple-minded reader savors this sweet lozenge of a detail. We don't deny the inevitability of extinction, but we can't help being fond of that postcard.'
'"Wisdom consists partly in not pretending anymore, in discarding artifice. . . . And there is something infinitely touching when an artist, in old age, takes on simplicity. . . . Showing off is part of ambition; but now that we are old, let us have the confidence to speak simply." And so he does. In this meditation on death, he brings to life, in short sure strokes, his parents, Albert and Kathleen.'
'"She lay in a small, clean room with a cross on the wall; she was indeed on a trolley, with the back of her head towards me. . . . She seemed, well, very dead: eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and more so on the left side than the right, which was just like her — she used to hang a cigarette from the right corner of her mouth and talk out of the opposite side. . . . I touched her cheek several times, then kissed her at the hairline. Was she that cold because she'd been in the freezer, or because the dead are naturally so cold? . . . 'Well done, Ma,' I told her quietly. She had, indeed, done the dying 'better' than my father. He had endured a series of strokes, his decline stretching over years; she had gone from first attack to death altogether more efficiently and speedily." In her effects he finds a full bottle of cream sherry and a birthday cake, untouched.'
"Deaths in the Bible. God - 2,270,365
not including the victims of Noah's flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, or the
many plagues, famines, fiery serpents, etc because no specific numbers
were given. Satan - 10."
GARRISON KEILLOR reviews 'Dying of the Light' by Julian Barnes in The New York Times.
Excepts from http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/05/books/review/Keillor-t.html?_r=1&oref=...
'So Barnes turns toward the strict regime of science and here is little comfort indeed. We are all dying. Even the sun is dying. Homo sapiens is evolving toward some species that won't care about us whatsoever and our art and literature and scholarship will fall into utter oblivion. Every author will eventually become an unread author. And then humanity will die out and beetles will rule the world. A man can fear his own death but what is he anyway? Simply a mass of neurons. The brain is a lump of meat and the soul is merely "a story the brain tells itself." Individuality is an illusion. Scientists find no physical evidence of "self" — it is something we've talked ourselves into. We do not produce thoughts, thoughts produce us. "The 'I' of which we are so fond properly exists only in grammar." Stripped of the Christian narrative, we gaze out on a landscape that, while fascinating, offers nothing that one could call Hope. (Barnes refers to "American hopefulness" with particular disdain.)'
'"There is no separation between 'us' and the universe." We are simply matter, stuff. "Individualism — the triumph of free-thinking artists and scientists — has led to a state of self-awareness in which we can now view ourselves as units of genetic obedience."'
'All true so far as it goes, perhaps, but so what? Barnes is a novelist and what gives this book life and keeps the reader happily churning forward is his affection for the people who wander in and out, Grandma Scoltock in her hand-knitted cardigan reading The Daily Worker and cheering on Mao Zedong,while Grandpa watched "Songs of Praise" on television, did woodwork and raised dahlias, and killed chickens with a green metal machine screwed to the doorjam that wrung their necks. The older brother who teaches philosophy, keeps llamas and likes to wear knee breeches, buckle shoes, a brocade waistcoat. We may only be units of genetic obedience, but we do love to look at each other. Barnes tells us he keeps in a drawer his parents' stuff, all of it, their scrapbooks, ration cards, cricket score cards, Christmas card lists, certificates of Perfect Attendance, a photo album of 1913 entitled "Scenes From Highways & Byways," old postcards ("We arrived here safely, and, except for the ham sandwiches, we were satisfied with the journey"). The simple-minded reader savors this sweet lozenge of a detail. We don't deny the inevitability of extinction, but we can't help being fond of that postcard.'
'"Wisdom consists partly in not pretending anymore, in discarding artifice. . . . And there is something infinitely touching when an artist, in old age, takes on simplicity. . . . Showing off is part of ambition; but now that we are old, let us have the confidence to speak simply." And so he does. In this meditation on death, he brings to life, in short sure strokes, his parents, Albert and Kathleen.'
'"She lay in a small, clean room with a cross on the wall; she was indeed on a trolley, with the back of her head towards me. . . . She seemed, well, very dead: eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and more so on the left side than the right, which was just like her — she used to hang a cigarette from the right corner of her mouth and talk out of the opposite side. . . . I touched her cheek several times, then kissed her at the hairline. Was she that cold because she'd been in the freezer, or because the dead are naturally so cold? . . . 'Well done, Ma,' I told her quietly. She had, indeed, done the dying 'better' than my father. He had endured a series of strokes, his decline stretching over years; she had gone from first attack to death altogether more efficiently and speedily." In her effects he finds a full bottle of cream sherry and a birthday cake, untouched.'
"Deaths in the Bible. God - 2,270,365
not including the victims of Noah's flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, or the
many plagues, famines, fiery serpents, etc because no specific numbers
were given. Satan - 10."