It's incredible, but not so much in the end, how much sadness can Barnes pack in 224 pages. As this is probably the saddest book he has ever written, and he wrote many and mostly they are all sad. That said I think that this is an incredible good book, the way the story of Susan and Paul is portrayed would be indelibly stamped in my mind with the related emotions. I didn't imagine what ride I had in front of me when I read "The only real question".

È incredibile, anche se non poi tanto guardando la bibliografia dell'autore, quanta tristezza riesce a far entrare Barnes in 224 pagine, perché questo é probabilmente il libro piú triste che abbia scritto fino ad ora e lui non ne ha scritti pochi e la maggior parte sono tristi. Detto questo, perché ritengo che fosse un disclaimer necessario, ritengo il romanzo molto molto bello e la storia di Susan e Paul mi rimarrà impressa in modo indelebile nella mente assieme a tutti i sentimenti che mi ha suscitato. Non immaginavo cosa mi aspettasse, quando ho letto il primo paragrafo del libro, che parlava dell' unica vera domanda.

THANKS TO NETGALLEY FOR THE PREVIEW!

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds...

3.5 stars

Not a line (or indeed sonnet) which allows for real life circumstances, for everyday men and women. Love is different things to different people, as this novella shows.

Barnes is always tightly in control of his words, saying in a couple of hundred pages what others may struggle to keep to double that length, and I admire him for that. This is quite tight but still a complete overview of a relationship over several decades.

Albeit it, an unusual one. Paul is 19 when he meets and quickly falls for an 'older woman' (married) at his parents' tennis club. Their unapproved and unconventional pairing is noticed by Susan's husband, Paul's parents, friends, the community, with very different reactions.

Not merely a short-term affair, the teenager gets to learn about grown-up love and all its potential consequences as he takes the narrative, though I was quite interested to see it from Susan's point of view. Paul grows up through the book, though I wasn't sure I knew enough about him as an adult to feel much compassion for him. He narrates looking back at his youth:
"Would you rather love the more, and suffer the more; or love the less, and suffer the less? That is, I think, the only real question."

Though I'm not sure we always get the choice or the foresight to make these decisions.

I liked this more during the first half of the story, I couldn't really understand some of the decisions and actions taken as time passed, though the ending is poignant and rather sad. And something many partnerships will have ahead of them.

It's not going to be for everyone. Quite an intense story, it may hit home for some readers, and be upsetting.

Mostly a two-hander between Paul and Susan, her husband is quite a frightening and unpredictable secondary character. The portrayal of love varied between seeming very realistic and feeling out-of-the-ordinary and a little harder to identify/empathise with.

I finished it feeling a little down, despondent. It's not one that really resonated with me, but I couldn't really feel a connection to the characters or their situations, though it was fascinating to see the development of the relationship over many years and how age/infirmity can change it so dramatically.

With thanks to Netgalley for the advance e-copy, provided for review purposes.

This felt like a natural progression (although unconnected) from A Sense of an Ending with its older male narrator looking back on his life and loves and a May to September relationship burgeoning at a time of social constraints that must sound archaic to younger generations - but it is much more emotionally powerful than the former title and also more reflective of time past compared to the present. It’s very English, if that makes sense, and there is much to recognise either from your own experiences or those told anecdotally by your parents’ generation. How moving you find this book will depend on your empathetic imagination I think as much of the tragedy is implied and the first person narration holds you at a considerable distance from the character who suffers most of all. It’s not that this doesn’t work but this did introduce an element of frustration as I longed to get into the other chracter’s head. My other slight criticism is that I did sometimes wonder whether the narrator was the character or the author, particularly during the more extensive state of the nation reflections. Overall though, I found this to be a thoughtful and well written treatise on love which I’m sure will resonate with many readers.

This unusual romance is definitely not in the same ballpark as the likes of The Notebook and other such love stories - instead it begins as a pseudo-parody of the younger man-older woman genre - ending in a tragically realistic fashion.

Following the story of protagonist Paul, a 19-year-old man-child, attempts to find his feet in the world by defying social conventions. Enter Susan, a married woman with two grown children even older than Paul. Beginning innocently after joining a tennis club, Paul seems to grow increasingly attracted to the almost middle-aged woman, but is clearly ambiguous about his motives for pursuing her. Is it out of sheer rebellion against his traditional upbringing or just another yarn to tell his university friends? What does become increasingly apparent is that it is not just a summer affair, as things start to unravel over time. The question posed by the book at the end is: "Would you rather love the more, and suffer the more; or love the less, and suffer the less?"

As per usual, Julian Barnes is a unique storyteller, able to adapt his writing every single time. It is vastly different from some of his other works such as The Noise of Time, which is written almost like a Russian classic. This, on the other hand, is written in an honest first-person narrative, sounding genuinely like a happy-go-lucky teenager. While it is not a perfect story, especially as the chronology feels inconsistent, it is an easy read.

A great book. I loved the story and the style of writing. There were strong characters who made the storyline. Highly recommended.

Many thanks to Netgalley and Julian Barnes for the copy of this book. I agreed to give my unbiased opinion voluntarily.

Julian Barnes, next to William Boyd, is a brilliant chronicler of conditions of the human heart and an acute observer of human failures. I always look forward to his new work. His latest book, due for publication February 1st, opens with this sentence: Would you rather love the more, and suffer the more; or love the less, and suffer the less? That is, I think, finally, the only real question.


This line sets the tone for the next 224 pages where we become witness to Susan and Paul’s love story. Paul, age nineteen, feeling bored during his semester break, decides to join the local tennis club and is paired off with Susan, age 48, to start in the doubles matches. What begins as a perfectly innocent encounter between a young man and what we today would refer to as a “cougar”, develops into a life changing relationship, both throwing caution to the wind.


It is the Fifties; Susan is trapped in a loveless marriage with Gordon Macleod and mother of two girls Paul’s age. Despite their huge age difference, Paul and Susan are certain about the depth of their love and never doubt the seriousness of their feelings. When Paul comes close to finishing his studies as a solicitor, they run off with each other to life together but the demands put on Paul as their relationship shifts are greater than he ever thought possible. Barnes chronicles their relationship until Paul’s old age beyond Susan’s death. The voice of Paul as a young and much older narrator looking back on a life lived is very moving and masterfully written.
One of the characters in the book I particularly adored is Joan, Susan’s best friend, whose dry sense of humor and no nonsense approach to life and her friend’s situation is only achieved by someone who has been beaten by life herself.

“We were together– under the same roof, that is– for ten or more years. Afterwards, I continued to see her regularly. In later years, less often. When she died, a few years ago, I acknowledged that the most vital part of my life had finally come to a close. I shall always think of her well, I promised myself. And this is how I would remember it all, if I could. But I can’t.”

Julian Barnes’ latest novel, The Only Story tells the story of the narrator, Paul’s, one true love, through his memories looking back on the story many decades later:

“Most of us have only one story to tell. I don’t mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there’s only one that matters, only one finally worth telling. This is mine. But here’s the first problem.

If this is your only story, then it’s the one you have most often told and retold, even if– as is the case here– mainly to yourself. The question then is: do all these retellings bring you closer to the truth of what happened, or move you further away? I’m not sure. “

Aged 19, at university, living in suburbia, Paul is invited to ’play-in’ at the local tennis club, and finds himself paired in the mixed-doubles by Susan, 48 years-old, married with two daughters a little older than Paul. Her first words to him immediately alert the reader – but not Paul - as to where this story may be heading:

“‘Which side do you prefer?’ she asked. ‘Side?’ ‘Forehand or backhand?’ ‘Sorry. I don’t really mind.’ ‘You take the forehand to begin with, then.’”

But as Paul, narrating his memories, observes:

“Writing all this down, it seems more knowing than it was at the time.
[…]
Perhaps you’ve understood a little too quickly; I can hardly blame you. We tend to slot any new relationship we come across into a pre-existing category. We see what is general or common about it; whereas the participants see– feel– only what is individual and particular to them. “

But Paul’s relationship does follow the path we initially assume – they become first close friends and then lovers. Quite what everyone, including her alcoholic husband and her daughters, makes of their relationship isn’t clear:

“‘You’re her . . . ?’ ‘Godson,’ you reply automatically. Or maybe you say ‘Nephew’, or possibly ‘Lodger’, which at least contains four correct letters in it. “

The story is told in three parts, each in a different person. The first, telling of their story until she leaves the marital home and sets up house with Paul, in the first person, the second, which tells of their years living together in the second, and the latter, where Paul reflects on the aftermath of their relationship in his life, the third:

“It was as if he viewed, and lived, his life in the third person. Which allowed him to assess it more accurately, he believed. “

Another distinctive feature is the style of the recollections, rather rambling and (designed to seem) unstructured - one section is even labelled “a few stray thoughts and memories”:

“I’m remembering the past, not reconstructing it. So there won’t be much set-dressing. You might prefer more. You might be used to more. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not trying to spin you a story; I’m trying to tell you the truth. “

In the first Paul tries to recall the world as he saw it then, for example his assumption (see above) as to the uniqueness of their relationship and his rejection of his parents’ generation (a rejection from
which he exempts the rather ironic and playful Susan):

“What did I dislike and distrust about adulthood? Well, to put it briefly: the sense of entitlement, the sense of superiority, the assumption of knowing better if not best, the vast banality of adult opinions, the way women took out compacts and powdered their noses, the way men sat in armchairs with their legs apart and their privates heavily outlined against their trousers, the way they talked about gardens and gardening, the spectacles they wore and the spectacles they made of themselves, the drinking and the smoking, the terrible phlegmy racket when they coughed, the artificial smells they applied to conceal their animal smells, the way men went bald and women shaped their hair with aerosols of glue, the noxious thought that they might still be having sex, their docile obedience to social norms, their snarky disapproval of anything satirical or questioning, their assumption that their children’s success would be measured by how well they imitated their parents, the suffocating noise they made when agreeing with one another, their comments about the food they cooked and the food they ate, their love of stuff I found disgusting (especially olives, pickled onions, chutneys, piccalilli, horseradish sauce, spring onions, sandwich spread, stinky cheese and Marmite), their emotional complacency, their sense of racial superiority, the way they counted their pennies, the way they hunted for food trapped between their teeth, the way they weren’t interested enough in me, and the way they were too interested in me when I didn’t want them to be. “

A crucial role in the story is played by Susan’s friend Joan, herself victim of a failed love affair, now seeking her comfort in her dogs, the crossword (at which she cheats) and the bottle. She warns him of their naivety and tells him Susan will ultimately suffer most.

A forecast that is born out in the much sadder, at times painful, second part, where Paul suggests he is in need of a book called “How to Cope With Your Middle-Aged Female Alcoholic Lover”. And Joan refuses to act as an intermediary when their relationship becomes strained:

“Point One. I’m not a go-between. Whatever you say stays in this room and it doesn’t get leaked back. Point Two. I’m not a shrink, I’m not some kind of advice centre, I don’t even much like listening to other people’s woes. I tend to think they should get on with it, stop moaning, roll up their sleeves and all of that. Point Three. I’m just an old soak whose life hasn’t worked out and who lives alone with her dogs. So I’m not an authority on anything. Not even crosswords, as you once pointed out. “

Paul – who had once opined that love and truth were inseparable – now finds that the delicious lies to others that once hid the lovers’ guilty secrets now lead them to lie to each other, even themselves:

“Years ago, when you started off lying to your parents, you did so with a kind of relish, reckless of consequence; it almost felt character-building. Later, you began to tell lies in all directions: to protect her, and to protect your love. Later still, she starts lying to you, to keep you from knowing her secret; and now she lies with a kind of relish, reckless of consequence. Then, finally, you begin lying to her. Why? Something to do with the need to create some internal space which you could keep intact– and where you could yourself remain intact. And this is how it is for you now. Love and truth– where have they gone?”

And although he tries to move on, somewhat cruelly one might say, his relationship with Susan inevitably overshadows his relationships with other women:

“And while we’re about it, I may as well say that I once promised her there would always be room in my life for her, even if it was just an attic.’

‘Paul, I don’t want an attic in my life.’ And then she said it. ‘Especially not with a madwoman in it.’”

Ultimately this is a beautifully written and, at times, moving novel. So why only three stars. Well this is just Barnes’ 4th novel since 2000. And whereas the other 3, Arthur and George (2005), The Sense of an Ending (2011) and The Noise of Time (2016) were all distinctive, this feels like too much of a re-working of past territory, particularly The Sense of an Ending, and without the McEwanesque twist that elevated the latter to a worthy Booker winner (even if chosen by a rather unworthy Booker jury).

In ‘The Only Story’, Julian Barnes turns once more to the situation of a young man’s relationship with a middle-aged woman. However, whilst this countercultural scenario is only revealed towards the end of ‘The Sense of an Ending’, in Barnes’ latest novel we are immersed in the decade-long love story – the only story – of nineteen year old Paul and forty-eight year old Susan from the outset. Looking back in middle age, Paul tells the story of their halcyon time together in respectable middle class southern counties England, their increasingly stressful years in Peckham and his desertion as her alcoholism takes hold and his self-preservation kicks in.
As ever, Barnes writes brilliantly, conjuring up the stuffiness of post war little England, the confident voice of the ‘determined to be rebellious’ egocentric teenager, the shame of domestic abuse, the pervasive damage inflicted by alcoholism and the descent into mundane old age. Appropriately, the tone of Paul’s narrative voice changes over the course of the novel as he recalls, dwells and mulls over specific moments and incidents. First person narrative elicits the confident, smug student in Part 1 who clearly feels he is that little bit more daring and special than his peers thanks to his status as older woman’s lover; second person narrative suggests that, whilst Paul is considering his desertion of her and the negative effects of his time with Susan, they are too painful to examine too closely and, finally, third person is introduced to create an emotional distance, to imply that Paul is someone who doesn’t welcome intimacy, who has damaged and been damaged by his unconventional love story.
There is much that is true of the human condition in this novel: we are all affected by past relationships; we all make unwise choices; we all suffer from forms of vanity; we all recognise that we lie to ourselves, and we know that moral choices are not conveniently coloured black or white. Whether readers will hail this as a masterpiece or not may come down to how far they are able to suspend their disbelief to accommodate Paul and Susan’s love story. This develops despite a thirty year age gap. For the most part, Paul seems to drift in and out of the Macleod house with impunity – surely the daughters (contemporaries of his), neither of whom are painted as shy and retiring, would have challenged his presence robustly. And wouldn’t his parents have had something more to say? His university friends appear to admire his relationship with a woman easily old enough to be his mother. Really? This is not the recognisable mind set of the majority of nineteen year old boys!
In the end this is not a love story but a tragedy, one that took shape long before Paul becomes part of the tale. A generation marked by war; a woman grieving a dead fiancé; an abusive husband; a life of few pleasures. And into this springs naïve, self-assured Paul, whose ‘only story’ will inevitably leave him drained, cynical and sad.

Like the character in Sense of an Ending there's something about Julian Barnes that I just 'don't get'. He writes beautifully and the writing is always compelling, I never want to just leave the book half finished, but when I read newspaper reviews they seem to find the writing so much more profound than I do.

So the plot of this novel is fairly straightforward - a teenage boy meets and falls in love with a married woman of 48. They are together for around 15 years on and off. Now in his 60s he is looking back on his life, moving in the narrative from first to second to third person - an interesting device as ordinarily our younger selves feel more distant than our current selves but I suspect this is to illustrate where the experience is more powerful and immediate.

There is much musing along the way about the nature of love (as well as good sex, bad sex, sad sex) and it is a poignant read certainly. But I really didn't get it - I'm sure in a month I'll read a lot of reviews in the papers describing this as sublime and I hope they help me see things I haven't at the moment, but as of now it isn't showing me anything revealing about the nature of love (either at a gut or intellectual level) that feels fresh. I'll be interested to see what other Netgalley readers think.

Most of us have only one story to tell. I don’t mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there’s only one that matters, only one finally worth telling. This is mine.

Everyone has their love story. Everyone. It may have been a fiasco, it may have fizzled out, it may never even have got going, it may have been all in the mind, that doesn’t make it any less real. Sometimes, it makes it more real. Sometimes, you see a couple, and they seem bored witless with one another, and you can’t imagine them having anything in common, or why they’re still living together. But it’s not just habit or complacency or convention or anything like that. It’s because once, they had their love story. Everyone does. It’s the only story

The book is narrated by Paul some 50 years after, as a 19 year old, he commenced an affair with a much older, woman Susan, after the two are picked as mixed doubles partners (“chosen by lot” as the two remark at intervals later) and consists of her memories of their lengthy relationship.

But here’s the first problem. If this is your only story, then it’s the one you have most often told and retold, even if –as is the case here –mainly to yourself. The question then is: do all these retellings bring you closer to the truth of what happened, or move you further away?

You understand, I hope, that I’m telling you everything as I remember it ……. I think there’s a different authenticity to memory, and not an inferior one. Memory sorts and sifts according to the demands made on it by the rememberer …..

Immediately then we recognise that Barnes is returning to some of the same themes and ideas as in his novel “Sense of An Ending” – which of course, won the Booker prize, against an infamouslonglist picked by Stella Rimmington and her fellow jurors to be “readable”. Perhaps ironically, Sense of An Ending failed to win the Costa Prize in the same year (the prize explicitly designed to rewardbooks which make reading enjoyable) despite being shortlisted.

That book featured a narrator with unreliable memory and self-delusion, and an apparent resolution of a mystery at the end of the novel (albeit with the reader believing the actual truth may still differ). This novel is very different – the narrator is well aware of the subjectivity of his own memories and the ways in which he lied to himself over time, the only realy mystery here is in the narrator trying to understand his true views on his experiences, and there is no resolution to be had there by narrator or reader.

The initial affair commences in a village in respectable, middle class, suburban Surrey, in the early 1960s (Paul one of the first intakes to Sussex University).

At first Paul comments

The time, the place, the social milieu? I’m not sure how important they are in stories about love. Perhaps in the old days, in the classics, where there are battles between love and duty, love and religion, love and family, love and the state. This isn’t one of those stories. But still, if you insist. The time: more than fifty years ago. The place: about fifteen miles south of London.

But the reader realises that the social conventions of the time are key to the novel – in particular a certain type of English resolution to avoid addressing difficult situations, and later Paul reflects

Another thing he had come to understand. He had imagined that, in the modern world, time and place were no longer relevant to stories of love. Looking back, he saw that they had played a greater part in his story than he ever realized. He had given in to the old, continuing, ineradicable delusion: that lovers somehow stand outside of time.

And in those two paragraphs something else changes – the first is in the second person, the second in the third person, and this is another important and distinctive aspect to the novel – as Paul looks back on his only story, the story of his first love, his tale changes over time in person – broadly starting in the first person (in the flush of the lengthy initial affair – carried out with Susan’s husband’s clear knowledge but also disgust), moving to the second person (as the relationship matures and Susan leaves her husband and becomes more difficult as Susan begins to drink) and then to the third person (as Susan lapse into complete alcoholism can no longer be denied or ignored), before poignantly returning to the first person. This progression is not entirely smooth and is mixed up with a much more irregular variation in tense between present and past.

Two crucial passages address this directly:

And first love always happens in the overwhelming first person. How can it not? Also, in the overwhelming present tense. It takes us time to realize that there are other persons, and other tenses.

And

For instance, he thought he probably wouldn’t have sex again before he died. Probably. Possibly. Unless. But on balance, he thought not. Sex involved two people. Two persons, first person and second person: you and I, you and me. But nowadays, the raucousness of the first person within him was stilled. It was as if he viewed, and lived, his life in the third person. Which allowed him to assess it more accurately, he believed.

Many themes, phrases (“a washed out generation”, Susan’s husband hitting a ball as though he hates it) and ideas which Paul remembers (or in some cases imagines/dreams) recur throughout the book - for example an “indelible image which had pursued him down his life: of being at an upstairs window, holding on to Susan by the wrists”.

Paul also collects in a notebook famous sayings on love, deleting or adding them as his ideas on love change – over time he realises that many concepts about love, and their exact opposites, apparently are equally true, and perhaps, and one of his favourite phrases is:

In love, everything is both true and false; it’s the one subject on which it’s impossible to say anything absurd

And ultimately, reflecting on his life-defining, joyous but impossibly difficult relationship with Susan, he reflects on the profound lines from Tennyson, which are so well known as to be almost banal, but which nevertheless get at the heart of the great unresolvable in Paul’s story:

One entry in his notebook was, of course: ‘It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ That was there for a few years; then he crossed it out. Then he wrote it in again; then he crossed it out again. Now he had both entries side by side, one clear and true, the other crossed out and false.

I did find a small number of false notes – which seemed out of place in what is otherwise a meticulously crafted novel (just as we would expect from Barnes) - - a football terrace chant and most oddly of all (if acknowledged as such by Paul) a crassly obscene suggestion to Susan involving root vegetables. Other odd notes seem to have been randomly lifted from other writers. For example there is a passage on an interesting but rather detailed list of reasons on why people do crosswords (with various sub-bullets added) – which almost reminds me of Magnus Mills; a concept taken from a Formula One race commentary which stands out for its specificity (with the location of the race and the driver and commentator involved) in a book of generalizations, and perhaps reminds me more of Ian McEwan; and an obsession with Susan’s “precious ears with their elegant helices” which can only have been lifted straight from Murakami.

But much of the imagery is very memorable – I particularly enjoyed

To remember her back to what he still thought of as her innocence: an innocence of soul. Before such innocence became defaced. Yes, that was the word for it: a scribbling-over with the wild graffiti of booze.

And the book contains much wisdom on love in particular, my favourite:

Nowadays, at the other end of life, I have a rule of thumb about whether or not two people are having an affair: if you think they might be, then they definitely are.

Overall an excellent book – and one which poses already a quandry for this year’s Booker committee. Do they short/longlist it and get accused of conventionality (Barnes has been shortslisted for the Booker three times before winning it) or do they omit and thus ignore what is already I think likely to be one of the deservedly widest read literary books of 2018.

My thanks to Penguin Random House UK for an ARC via NetGalley.

“Would you rather love more, and suffer the more; or love the less, and suffer the less? That is, I think, finally, the only real question.”

Paul looks back at his life and the love of his life, Susan. He met her when he was only 19, she, at the time, was almost 30 years older, but fascinated by the boy. She was married, had her place in society, was experienced and could teach him how to love. For years they had an affair, then they ran away, and then their life crumbled and fell apart. Susan fell apart. Taking her away from her well-settled life-style did not do her good, but Paul was in love. As he had always been. She was the love of his life. His only love. His only love story. Until he couldn’t go on anymore. But loving her he never stopped, until the very end. And he could never and didn’t ever want to find another woman to love in the same way.

After writing certain kinds of biographies about Shostakovich and Sarah Bernhardt, Julian Barnes returns with a novel about the greatest topic in literature: love. And it is not meant to end well, like most of the great love stories; neither Romeo and Juliet nor Anna Karenina or Emma Bovary found the love they dreamt of and could live it.

The story is told from elderly Paul’s perspective. Many decades have passed when he remembers how it all began, but he does not judge his younger self, nor smile at his naiveté. He takes young Paul just like he was: innocent, inexperienced and with great expectations. There were adults around him telling him that he was just dreaming and naive – but this did not keep him from falling for the elder woman. His unconditional love and admiration for Susan are compelling, but the reader senses that this will not end well. However, it does not turn out as expected since Susan is not the woman she seemed to be. Taken from her natural surroundings, she is completely lost. Her roots are cut and she does not get a grip on the new life.

It is a sad story, but Paul doesn’t regret it:

“What he did regret was that he had been too young, too ignorant, too absolutist, too confident of what he imagined love’s nature and working to be.”

Julian Barnes is a great writer, he knows how to tell a story, how to pace it perfectly and he finds the right words to have his characters express themselves. What I liked especially throughout the novel was the search for a definition of what the big four-letter-word ultimately means. He concludes that it can be happy or unhappy but it surely will be “a real disaster once you give yourself over to it entirely”. Well, that’s it maybe, surrendering yourself, come what may and adhering to it.

A wonderfully told novel, sad but enchanting.

"Most of us have only one story to tell. I don’t mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there’s only one that matters, only one finally worth telling. This is mine."

In The Only Story, Barnes revisits a subject he explored in [book:The Sense of an Ending|10746542]: the unreliable narrator, an older man looking back on his youth and trying to make sense of it. In the former book, we as readers worked out the inconsistency in the narration. Here, Paul, our narrator, is clear from the beginning that he cannot claim to be accurate:

"I'm not necessarily putting it down in the order that it happened. I think there’s a different authenticity to memory, and not an inferior one. Memory sorts and sifts according to the demands made on it by the rememberer. Do we have access to the algorithm of its priorities? Probably not. But I would guess that memory prioritises whatever is most useful to help keep the bearer of those memories going."

What we are presented with, then, is Paul’s attempt to collect his thoughts and feelings about events from 50-or-so years ago when, as a 19-year-old, he was involved in an affair with a much older woman. The events he is remembering, for the main part of the book, took place in England in the 1960s and social commentary plays an important part in the story alongside the events Paul is recollecting:

"…what might the neighbours think, and who might subsequently refuse to come for sherry?"

And

"The fact that it would never come to court, that middle-class England had a thousand ways of avoiding the truth, that respectability was no more shed in public than clothes…"

But, primarily, related in the first person, we read of Paul's meeting with and then affair with Susan. Then, related in the second person, we read about it starting to fall apart. Then related in the third person, we read about Paul's life afterwards. That’s a simplification, and there is actually a mixture of first, second and third person narration at times, but it gives you an idea. There is perhaps a clue about this in the following:

”Sex involved two people. Two persons, first person and second person: you and I, you and me. But nowadays, the raucousness of the first person within him was stilled. It was as if he viewed, and lived, his life in the third person. Which allowed him to assess it more accurately, he believed.”

It is as if Barnes is seeing youth as a time of self-centredness, all about me, with middle-age then bringing a sense of reflection and older-age leading to the third person, more detached assessment mentioned in the quote.

The three ages of man: me, you and he.

It would not be right to discuss the events of the book as that would spoil it. But Barnes is writing from his position as a man in his 70s who has observed life and has a gift to be able to write things down in a way that makes them sound obvious even if you haven’t especially thought them through. He writes a lot about love and a lot about the ageing process (there are many similarities with The Sense of an Ending, I think).

On love, he borrows a quote from elsewhere more than once:

"'In love, everything is both true and false; it’s the one subject on which it’s impossible to say anything absurd.'"

On ageing, he makes comments such as:

"Strange how, when you are young, you owe no duty to the future; but when you are old, you owe a duty to the past. To the one thing you can’t change."

And

"Back then, it had sounded like a counsel of despair; now, it struck him as normal, and emotionally practical."

This is a book filled with observations that could only really come from an older person. Sadly, I am getting to the age where I can relate to far too many of them (although I am about 10-12 years younger than Paul in the book). A sad story of love that goes wrong and the impact of that on the people involved. It is beautifully written - it is not often I sit and read over 200 pages with barely even a comfort break.

My thanks to Penguin Random House UK for a free ARC via NetGalley.

The bitter-sweet reminiscences of a transgressive love affair also create an evocative depiction of 1960’s Home County middle-class society, with its repressive sexual mores and restrictive expectations. As Paul recollects his past life, the immediacy and intimacy of the account varies as the narrative voice shifts between first, second and third person.
Paul scrupulously analyses the accuracy of his memory, and muses on the 'familiar question' of its nature, recognising that memory is unreliable and biased, ‘but in which direction?… an optimistic memory might make it easier to part from life, might soften the pain of extinction.’
A poignant and beautifully nuanced meditation, from a master of fiction, on what love is and can do, over time.

In 1963, a 19 year old student starts an affair with a 48 year old woman: a relationship that starts easily, which he believes is love...

This is very easy to read with some gentle humour in the first half, as well as indicators of the cruelty of lovers (Susan's nickname for her mild, dull husband is Mr Elephant Pants because of his vast grey trousers!), but ultimately I found it more telling for the social history, the sexual mores and expectations of the 1960s than especially insightful about love.

The narrative switches subtly through 1st, 2nd and 3rd person as our narrator distances himself from his own story before returning to it at the end. A quick read, cleverly written but not one which will linger in my mind - 3.5 stars.

Thanks to the publisher for an ARC via NetGalley.

The Only Story is a novel about love told by a narrator who is remembering how a youthful passion turned into something far more demanding that reverberates throughout his life. Paul is nineteen and meets a woman at his local tennis club. She’s not who his parents want for him, but Paul doesn’t care. As he gets older, their love stays complicated, and Paul’s life takes an unexpected route.

The narrative is being told from memory by the narrator Paul, with a fifty year long gap and numerous musings on telling stories and ways of remembering detail. This style gives it a clever, literary tone and a sense of being a reflection on love and how it fits into a person’s life or takes it over. The story itself strikes a depressing chord, dealing with alcoholism and elements of domestic abuse, but also how love isn’t always enough of a tie to somebody.

The focus is on the writing and the ideas of love and memory rather than on a fast or exciting narrative, so this is one for literary fiction fans who enjoy that kind of book. It can be a little uncomfortable at times, but the writing style stands out.