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Abschied[e]
Julian Barnes wird im Januar 2026 achtzig Jahre alt. Er weiß, dass die längste Zeit seines Lebens hinter ihm liegt, und er möchte die Kontrolle darüber behalten, wie man auf dieses Leben blicken wird.
Als Julian Barnes erfährt, dass er eine Krankheit hat, die für ihn tödlich sein kann, aber nicht sein muss, heißt das für ihn, die Dinge zu ordnen. Was zählt im Leben, welche Lebensphase war wichtig, oder trügt die Erinnerung? Er nimmt Abschied, indem er den Anfang und das vermeintliche Ende dieses außergewöhnlichen Schriftstellerlebens erzählt – und eine fiktive Geschichte, in der auch ganz viel Julian Barnes steckt.
Eine literarische, ehrliche Bilanz, ein Blick zurück und nach vorn von Julian Barnes, dem großen englischen Romancier, der sich vielleicht mit diesem Buch vom Schreiben verabschiedet. Schließlich weiß man nie, wann genau das eigene Leben endet.
Als Julian Barnes erfährt, dass er eine Krankheit hat, die für ihn tödlich sein kann, aber nicht sein muss, heißt das für ihn, die Dinge zu ordnen. Was zählt im Leben, welche Lebensphase war wichtig, oder trügt die Erinnerung? Er nimmt Abschied, indem er den Anfang und das vermeintliche Ende dieses außergewöhnlichen Schriftstellerlebens erzählt – und eine fiktive Geschichte, in der auch ganz viel Julian Barnes steckt.
Eine literarische, ehrliche Bilanz, ein Blick zurück und nach vorn von Julian Barnes, dem großen englischen Romancier, der sich vielleicht mit diesem Buch vom Schreiben verabschiedet. Schließlich weiß man nie, wann genau das eigene Leben endet.
256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 17, 2026
About the author
Julian Barnes
148 books7,211 followersJulian Patrick Barnes is an English writer. He won the Man Booker Prize in 2011 with The Sense of an Ending, having been shortlisted three times previously with Flaubert's Parrot, England, England, and Arthur & George. Barnes has also written crime fiction under the pseudonym Dan Kavanagh (having married Pat Kavanagh). In addition to novels, Barnes has published collections of essays and short stories.
In 2004 he became a Commandeur of L'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. His honours also include the Somerset Maugham Award and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He was awarded the 2021 Jerusalem Prize.
In 2004 he became a Commandeur of L'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. His honours also include the Somerset Maugham Award and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He was awarded the 2021 Jerusalem Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,494 reviews
November 22, 2025
Julian Barnes mentions two things at the beginning of his latest book: there will be a story – or a story within a story – but not just yet; and this will be his last book.
As promised, there is indeed a story that might be fiction, or may be autobiographical, but most certainly is metafiction. There is a beginning to the story and an ending, but there is no middle. It is flawed story, fleshed out by three overlapping memories – the author’s (or the character named Julian Barnes who stands in for the author) and the man and woman whose relationship he narrates – two individuals he met at university in the 1960s. And in the middle, there is a black gaping hole where none of them had contact with the other two.
Although Julian Barnes had promised his friends – Jean and Steven – that he would never appropriate their story, he does. He waits until they die and assuages his conscience by doing so. But Departures isn’t about them – not really. Memories shift and deceive with time. It forces writers to reinvent and rework.
As he nears 80 years old, a loyal reader of his works can almost feel him questioning his legacy. A song from the Broadway play Hamilton popped into my mind: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” Barnes would no doubt answer, “Because I am.” He does not flinch in writing about his manageable but incurable blood cancer, his increasing frustration with age-related memory lapses. There are ghosts of his other extraordinary books: Tony Webster in The Sense of an Ending revising his estimation of his place in the world; Levels of Life, a discourse on love and sorrow on the loss of his wife Pat Kavanaugh; or The Lemon Table and his mediations on growing old.
Now it’s real, and this may (or may not) be this great author’s endgame and his farewell. I will say this: for those of us who are more than casual readers of an author, an invisible bond begins to grow between us and them, even though we have never met them or spoken to them. We don’t know if this is truly Julian Barnes last book, but when he says, “I shall miss you,” it feels real. And corny though it sounds, I cried as if I had lost a friend. My thanks to Alfred A. Knopf for enabling me to be an early reader and reviewer of an all-time favorite author in exchange for an honest review.
As promised, there is indeed a story that might be fiction, or may be autobiographical, but most certainly is metafiction. There is a beginning to the story and an ending, but there is no middle. It is flawed story, fleshed out by three overlapping memories – the author’s (or the character named Julian Barnes who stands in for the author) and the man and woman whose relationship he narrates – two individuals he met at university in the 1960s. And in the middle, there is a black gaping hole where none of them had contact with the other two.
Although Julian Barnes had promised his friends – Jean and Steven – that he would never appropriate their story, he does. He waits until they die and assuages his conscience by doing so. But Departures isn’t about them – not really. Memories shift and deceive with time. It forces writers to reinvent and rework.
As he nears 80 years old, a loyal reader of his works can almost feel him questioning his legacy. A song from the Broadway play Hamilton popped into my mind: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” Barnes would no doubt answer, “Because I am.” He does not flinch in writing about his manageable but incurable blood cancer, his increasing frustration with age-related memory lapses. There are ghosts of his other extraordinary books: Tony Webster in The Sense of an Ending revising his estimation of his place in the world; Levels of Life, a discourse on love and sorrow on the loss of his wife Pat Kavanaugh; or The Lemon Table and his mediations on growing old.
Now it’s real, and this may (or may not) be this great author’s endgame and his farewell. I will say this: for those of us who are more than casual readers of an author, an invisible bond begins to grow between us and them, even though we have never met them or spoken to them. We don’t know if this is truly Julian Barnes last book, but when he says, “I shall miss you,” it feels real. And corny though it sounds, I cried as if I had lost a friend. My thanks to Alfred A. Knopf for enabling me to be an early reader and reviewer of an all-time favorite author in exchange for an honest review.
March 9, 2026
Julian Barnes, you touched me deeply. How special it is to be directly spoken to as one of his readers. Barnes felt it necessary to communicate with his readers about his contemplations and fear on the prospect of a future death. This is exceptional. And brave. And sincere. Fare thee well, Julian Barnes …
January 27, 2026
I sat, looking long into the setting night, as I turned the last page of this book. Something numb had climbed onto my throat and I sat massaging it gently, pressing this book against my chest for support.
On a day I was sick, this book came to me, like a pre-ordained meeting, and left me feeling many things.
Yes, this is Julian Barnes’ last book where he announces his diagnosis of blood cancer, along with all that which preceded and succeeded in its wake. One might hazard a guess that a news like this might have been handled with a fair share of maturity with a septuagenarian, who not only has an enviable oeuvre of literary achievements and wide array of knowledge sources but has also been witness to the departure of his beloved wife over a decade and a half ago to a similar cancer. And may be it did.
May be the maturity did play its part. In his anecdotal, engaging tone, Barnes journeys to-and-fro the years and recounts some of his choicest memories - the one where he was instrumental in bringing together his two closest friends, also ex-lovers from college, post forty years; also, the one where he forges a thick friendship with a Jack Russell and rocks his head until he falls into his last sleep.
And then there was gratitude. Gratitude for the love his books have received across the world; for finding true love despite the harsh mendacities of today’s world; for kind (and occasionally, funny) hospital staff that recognizes him and takes good care of him; for great writers he has had the privilege to read and learn from.
Finally, there was sadness. Not the kind that pulls one down but one that makes one stand up, alert, and exercise extra caution in doing the important things because now, it is almost time to say goodbye.
Goodbyes. They are like no other. Because when they enter a scene, they exit with a void that doesn’t get filled. Instead, in the void they form, memories start to fill in; with some force even the most-advanced dynamometers cannot measure. And all at once, the person departed is there, their identity re-constructed by memories, and yet, and yet, they are not there.
So, before Barnes waves his final goodbye, here he is – sharing with us his fears of failure, his apprehensions of second loves, his losses in his friends’ deaths, his dreams of travelling on a frail body, his inability to conquer cancer and his plea for us to keep going.
On a day I was sick, this book came to me, like a pre-ordained meeting, and left me feeling many things.
Yes, this is Julian Barnes’ last book where he announces his diagnosis of blood cancer, along with all that which preceded and succeeded in its wake. One might hazard a guess that a news like this might have been handled with a fair share of maturity with a septuagenarian, who not only has an enviable oeuvre of literary achievements and wide array of knowledge sources but has also been witness to the departure of his beloved wife over a decade and a half ago to a similar cancer. And may be it did.
May be the maturity did play its part. In his anecdotal, engaging tone, Barnes journeys to-and-fro the years and recounts some of his choicest memories - the one where he was instrumental in bringing together his two closest friends, also ex-lovers from college, post forty years; also, the one where he forges a thick friendship with a Jack Russell and rocks his head until he falls into his last sleep.
And then there was gratitude. Gratitude for the love his books have received across the world; for finding true love despite the harsh mendacities of today’s world; for kind (and occasionally, funny) hospital staff that recognizes him and takes good care of him; for great writers he has had the privilege to read and learn from.
Finally, there was sadness. Not the kind that pulls one down but one that makes one stand up, alert, and exercise extra caution in doing the important things because now, it is almost time to say goodbye.
Goodbyes. They are like no other. Because when they enter a scene, they exit with a void that doesn’t get filled. Instead, in the void they form, memories start to fill in; with some force even the most-advanced dynamometers cannot measure. And all at once, the person departed is there, their identity re-constructed by memories, and yet, and yet, they are not there.
So, before Barnes waves his final goodbye, here he is – sharing with us his fears of failure, his apprehensions of second loves, his losses in his friends’ deaths, his dreams of travelling on a frail body, his inability to conquer cancer and his plea for us to keep going.
“But I rarely catch your replies – you’re sitting on my deaf side, I’m afraid.I won’t stop looking, I promise.
Still, I hope you’ve enjoyed our relationship over the years. I certainly have. Your presence has delighted me – indeed, I would be nothing without you. So, I’ll just rest my hand briefly on your forearm – no, don’t stop looking – and then slip away. No, don’t stop looking.”
March 2, 2026
Life and memory can be so... quixotic, don't you find?
What is it with me and reading sad books when I definitely shouldn't?
I love reading semi-autobiographical novels, but the elegantly written Departure was focused on separations, departures and death rather than life and moments.
Departure sketches the past and the future; there is a beginning and an end; the one, unclear and foggy (memory can be tricky), the other hopeful, yet bleak.
What is it with me and reading sad books when I definitely shouldn't?
I love reading semi-autobiographical novels, but the elegantly written Departure was focused on separations, departures and death rather than life and moments.
Departure sketches the past and the future; there is a beginning and an end; the one, unclear and foggy (memory can be tricky), the other hopeful, yet bleak.
February 28, 2026
This is the closest Julian Barnes has come to replicating Flaubert’s parrot perfection. It is a great final book, if it does turn out to be his last. Like his earlier works, the plot isn’t the most important element. More than the story itself, it is a book about how we access memories. The discussions about Proust and AI in the first chapter are so good that it’s somewhat sad that Barnes doesn’t like Proust enough to keep him more central to this memorable exploration of how we remember and construct our lives.
February 22, 2026
Mir war gar nicht so klar, warum ich das lesen wollte, warum ich es so schnell nach Erscheinen haben wollte und warum ich, kaum hatte ich es, gleich loslegen wollte.
Eigentlich ist es gar nicht mein Ding, Romane über Krankheiten oder das Sterben, Trostbücher meide ich sonst eher. Ich bin auch weit entfernt davon, Julian Barnes erfahren zu sein, das einzige was ich von ihm kenne ist Sense of an Ending (was mir sehr gut gefallen hat).
Also, es war reine Neugier. Ein bedeutender Schriftsteller lässt verlautbaren, dass dies sein letztes Buch sein wird, weil er an einer tödlichen Krankheit leidet. Und dann gab es ja verschiedene Berichte, es gebe noch eine Geschichte in der Geschichte und das ganze Buch sei ganz anders, als man sich erwarten würde.
Und das stimmt und macht den Reiz aus.
Erstens ist es überhaupt nicht traurig. Im Gegenteil, es ist humorvoll, musste manchmal herzhaft lachen; und es hat interessante Reflexionen über die Themen Erinnern, Gedächtnis, Liebe, Sexualität und natürlich Krankheit. Vor allem aber ist das Buch ganz nahbar, sehr persönlich und dadurch irgendwie liebenswert.
Die Geschichte in der Geschichte handelt von Steven und Jean, einem Paar, das sich über Vermittlung des Autors kennengelernt hat, sich dann getrennt und nach mehreren Jahrzehnten wieder gefunden hat. Das war der Part der mir am besten gefallen hat, der Rest war ok. Insgesamt sehe ich es bei 3,5*, und es hat mir Lust gemacht, vielleicht doch noch etwas von Barnes zu lesen.
Eigentlich ist es gar nicht mein Ding, Romane über Krankheiten oder das Sterben, Trostbücher meide ich sonst eher. Ich bin auch weit entfernt davon, Julian Barnes erfahren zu sein, das einzige was ich von ihm kenne ist Sense of an Ending (was mir sehr gut gefallen hat).
Also, es war reine Neugier. Ein bedeutender Schriftsteller lässt verlautbaren, dass dies sein letztes Buch sein wird, weil er an einer tödlichen Krankheit leidet. Und dann gab es ja verschiedene Berichte, es gebe noch eine Geschichte in der Geschichte und das ganze Buch sei ganz anders, als man sich erwarten würde.
Und das stimmt und macht den Reiz aus.
Erstens ist es überhaupt nicht traurig. Im Gegenteil, es ist humorvoll, musste manchmal herzhaft lachen; und es hat interessante Reflexionen über die Themen Erinnern, Gedächtnis, Liebe, Sexualität und natürlich Krankheit. Vor allem aber ist das Buch ganz nahbar, sehr persönlich und dadurch irgendwie liebenswert.
Die Geschichte in der Geschichte handelt von Steven und Jean, einem Paar, das sich über Vermittlung des Autors kennengelernt hat, sich dann getrennt und nach mehreren Jahrzehnten wieder gefunden hat. Das war der Part der mir am besten gefallen hat, der Rest war ok. Insgesamt sehe ich es bei 3,5*, und es hat mir Lust gemacht, vielleicht doch noch etwas von Barnes zu lesen.
January 24, 2026
Oh god, this is such a good book. I’ve had a long and deep affection for Barnes’s writing. Before I read this, I read a review and it said many things about this book that you might think would be spoilers – except they really aren’t. What it said this book was about – a friendship a bit like that in Talking It Over, sort of, isn’t really what this book is about at all. This is a book about memory. And quite explicitly so. He talks at length about that guy Luria analysed with the terrifyingly photographic memory and repeatedly about Proust’s madeleine cake. The interesting thing about all this is his clear belief – one I share – that too much memory is something to be regretted rather than admired. I’ve just finished watching Pride and Prejudice again and love the bit towards the end where Lizzy says ‘in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.’
And isn’t that the point of fiction? Not to present a perfect reproduction of the past – Barnes says somewhere at the start of this that it is a book of non-fiction, but also says somewhere else that you should never trust an author when they tell you things about their book. In a book that repeatedly tells us how unreliable memory is, a memoir must be read accordingly. The important part is not the fidelity of the memory, but the truth of the feeling.
Like Barnes, I don’t really trust Proust’s madeleine story – but I was shocked to learn that in earlier drafts of the story it hadn’t been a madeleine at all. My youngest daughter is called Maddy, so, there is that in there for me at least too. But that it could have been a piece of toast or dry bread seemed remarkable to me. Here’s a man who goes off and writes page after page of memories that we are told sprung to him unbidden just by eating a bit of cake with a cup of tea and yet the cake might not have even been a cake in the first place.
I’ve a theory about memory too. That we don’t remember things, but rather we recollect them. I love the idea of ‘re-collecting’, there’s all these bits and we order them in a way that makes sense. A dear friend of mine – now long dead – once told me a funny story, shortly before he died – I can’t dredge it up at the moment, it hardly matters. I laughed and laughed. Then, we were at a pub with the woman who is now the treasurer of the state I live in and I told him to tell her the story too, since I’d found it so brilliantly funny. Ah, but he’d been caught out, and couldn’t remember the version of the story he’d told me or what he’d created to make it quite so funny. He told me to tell it. Except, I really don’t think he had been caught out. We all twist and fix stories as we tell them. It is the joy of being human. To consider such embellishments as ‘lies’ is to totally miss the point. A story told for you, in a way the teller knows you would enjoy, is one of life’s greatest gifts.
There’s a strange feeling you get when an author tells you this will be their last book. A kind of pre-death mourning. The two people he betrays in this by telling their story, of them breaking up as young people, then getting back together again, only to break up again, is interesting, but it is hardly what the book is about. Not that it is not about that, but it is about so much else. My most recent, perhaps last, romantic entanglement was niggling at the back of my mind while I read this – and Barnes’s version of the old line that in any relationship there is a lover and the loved, and we all prefer to be the lover. I guess there are few things more irritating that being loved more than we, ourselves love someone. The problem is that it isn’t necessarily something you can just turn down to the desired level. “Oh, sorry, am I loving you too much, give me a second…”
The review I read of this mentioned Metroland – I’m not sure I knew that was his first novel. I really liked it, but apparently it is virtually overlooked now. The thing I remember most about it is the central character being in France and pretending to be French and annoyed with some English tourists, going over and telling them off as if a Frenchman – only to be forced to meet up with them later and have to admit his deception. Barnes is particularly good at capturing the humiliation of such things. But, as I’ve said, I forgive him anything – this book is more like a fascinating conversation. It is a pity this will be the last of such conversations I will be able to have with this man.
And isn’t that the point of fiction? Not to present a perfect reproduction of the past – Barnes says somewhere at the start of this that it is a book of non-fiction, but also says somewhere else that you should never trust an author when they tell you things about their book. In a book that repeatedly tells us how unreliable memory is, a memoir must be read accordingly. The important part is not the fidelity of the memory, but the truth of the feeling.
Like Barnes, I don’t really trust Proust’s madeleine story – but I was shocked to learn that in earlier drafts of the story it hadn’t been a madeleine at all. My youngest daughter is called Maddy, so, there is that in there for me at least too. But that it could have been a piece of toast or dry bread seemed remarkable to me. Here’s a man who goes off and writes page after page of memories that we are told sprung to him unbidden just by eating a bit of cake with a cup of tea and yet the cake might not have even been a cake in the first place.
I’ve a theory about memory too. That we don’t remember things, but rather we recollect them. I love the idea of ‘re-collecting’, there’s all these bits and we order them in a way that makes sense. A dear friend of mine – now long dead – once told me a funny story, shortly before he died – I can’t dredge it up at the moment, it hardly matters. I laughed and laughed. Then, we were at a pub with the woman who is now the treasurer of the state I live in and I told him to tell her the story too, since I’d found it so brilliantly funny. Ah, but he’d been caught out, and couldn’t remember the version of the story he’d told me or what he’d created to make it quite so funny. He told me to tell it. Except, I really don’t think he had been caught out. We all twist and fix stories as we tell them. It is the joy of being human. To consider such embellishments as ‘lies’ is to totally miss the point. A story told for you, in a way the teller knows you would enjoy, is one of life’s greatest gifts.
There’s a strange feeling you get when an author tells you this will be their last book. A kind of pre-death mourning. The two people he betrays in this by telling their story, of them breaking up as young people, then getting back together again, only to break up again, is interesting, but it is hardly what the book is about. Not that it is not about that, but it is about so much else. My most recent, perhaps last, romantic entanglement was niggling at the back of my mind while I read this – and Barnes’s version of the old line that in any relationship there is a lover and the loved, and we all prefer to be the lover. I guess there are few things more irritating that being loved more than we, ourselves love someone. The problem is that it isn’t necessarily something you can just turn down to the desired level. “Oh, sorry, am I loving you too much, give me a second…”
The review I read of this mentioned Metroland – I’m not sure I knew that was his first novel. I really liked it, but apparently it is virtually overlooked now. The thing I remember most about it is the central character being in France and pretending to be French and annoyed with some English tourists, going over and telling them off as if a Frenchman – only to be forced to meet up with them later and have to admit his deception. Barnes is particularly good at capturing the humiliation of such things. But, as I’ve said, I forgive him anything – this book is more like a fascinating conversation. It is a pity this will be the last of such conversations I will be able to have with this man.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
I was fully absorbed in, and entirely entertained by, Julian Barnes latest (and unfortunately last) novel. It is vintage Barnes, interested in memory and its unreliability, in stories and the gaps in them.
It struck me that he asks many of the same questions as Ian McEwan in his latest novel: what if we could know everything? What if we could remember everything? Wouldn't it be too much? Where McEwan looks at it from a technological perspective, Barnes takes a neurological view (and a literary view drawing as usual on a range of French authors). But both reach the same conclusion.
Departure(s) consists of five parts: a theoretical start about 'involuntary autobiographical memories (IAM)', then the highly entertaining story of two lovers who reunite after 40 years with Julian acting as a matchmaker, and finally a coda that manages to be both light and deeply emotional.
I also had an IAM while reading Departure(s), as I vividly remembered reading the Sense of an Ending on a long train journey in 2012 and rediscovering the pleasure of reading.
Goodreads tells me I've read 8 of his books since (Barnes says in the novel that he wrote 44 so there are enough left).
Although part of me doesn't exclude there may be another Barnes in the future - after all he is nothing if not unreliable (and this one felt particularly fresh and sharp), I am grateful for the fabulous reading experiences he's given me - surprising, elegant, playful, precise and smart.
It struck me that he asks many of the same questions as Ian McEwan in his latest novel: what if we could know everything? What if we could remember everything? Wouldn't it be too much? Where McEwan looks at it from a technological perspective, Barnes takes a neurological view (and a literary view drawing as usual on a range of French authors). But both reach the same conclusion.
Departure(s) consists of five parts: a theoretical start about 'involuntary autobiographical memories (IAM)', then the highly entertaining story of two lovers who reunite after 40 years with Julian acting as a matchmaker, and finally a coda that manages to be both light and deeply emotional.
I also had an IAM while reading Departure(s), as I vividly remembered reading the Sense of an Ending on a long train journey in 2012 and rediscovering the pleasure of reading.
Goodreads tells me I've read 8 of his books since (Barnes says in the novel that he wrote 44 so there are enough left).
Although part of me doesn't exclude there may be another Barnes in the future - after all he is nothing if not unreliable (and this one felt particularly fresh and sharp), I am grateful for the fabulous reading experiences he's given me - surprising, elegant, playful, precise and smart.
November 19, 2025
I need people to read this; I am SOBBING and need to know if that is normal.
Read
February 16, 2026Esta coisa híbrida que tu fazes... Acho que é um erro.
Devias escolher entre uma coisa e outra. É nestes termos que Jean, parte do trio que compõe Partida, se dirige, a dada altura, ao narrador. A resposta é-lhe dada por "Julian Barnes", o narrador desta metanarrativa a roçar a autoficção: Não me importo que não gostes dos meus livros, mas estás enganada se pensas que não sei exatamente o que estou a fazer quando os escrevo.
Fruto da confiança que a idade, o estudo aturado e o talento lhe permitem, Barnes ensaia neste livro uma despedida de cerca de quatro décadas de escrita. Naquele que é, assim defende o autor, o livro da partida oficial,(...) o meu último livro, a minha última conversa convosco, Barnes elabora, nos seus próprios termos, uma longa dissertação sobre vida, morte e amor, uma espécie de panegírico do escritor e do que tem sido a sua relação com o leitor.
Recuando à odisseia que foram os anos da pandemia de COVID, quando foi diagnosticado com neoplasia do sangue (que é bem mais comum do que o autor possa sentir, e que, efetivamente, não será suficiente para lhe assinar a sentença de morte), Partida constrói-se como um romance encaixado em memórias, encaixado em ensaio, e, a ser, efetivamente, a última obra do autor, é uma despedida melancólica para ser lida num destes dias modorrentos de um inverno longo que mimica o bom velho clima inglês.
«Incurável mas tratável» soa como... a vida, não é? Embora haja inevitavelmente alguns sonhadores que tentam escapar a esta equação existencial.
Num registo que brinca com a fiabilidade da memória e o poder da ficção, Barnes cria uma espécie de tríptico autoficcional e metanarrativo onde o autor se confunde com o narrador, e as personagens se apresentam como figuras de carne e osso.
Preocupado com a forma do legado do escritor e do homem, Barnes (o narrador) decide oferecer ao leitor uma história dentro de outra história: uma formulação atípica de auto e homodiegese literária que recorre de igual maneira à experiência e à ficção sobre o lento esmorecer do corpo, da cognição e das faculdades do homem, enquanto o artista ainda sente o ímpeto de criar e de partilhar com o leitor parte da sua energia:
Estou consciente de que em breve existirei apenas como uma prateleira cheia de livros mais um conjunto de Episódios Biográficos. E a vida não é uma tragédia com um final feliz, apesar do que a religião promete; é, antes, uma farsa com um final trágico ou, no seu melhor, uma comédia ligeira com um final triste..
Numa forma fluída entre o recorte, a diarística e a confissão, Barnes reescreve-se, denunciando o modo como a necessidade de autocorreção aparece com a idade, como o hábito da repetição, encaminhando o leitor para o fulcro da sua partida:
Nunca acreditei na serenidade da velhice — sempre me pareceu uma fábula concebida para a tornar mais admirável, e a nós, mais complacentes.
Barnes não é um narrador dócil, feito à ideia de finitude e disposto a aceitar o corte do fio da vida (e da obra) simplesmente porque já teve a sua parte. Não são de abnegação e arrependimento as suas últimas palavras. O Barnes de Partida recusa negociar com a vida (ou com a morte?); sabe que já vivemos milénios suficientes neste planeta para ter percebido que a vida não é justa nem séria, e que coisas más acontecem muitas vezes a pessoas boas, e coisas boas às vezes acontecem a pessoas más, e que o caos repentino espreita constantemente sob cada superfície plácida, e não está exatamente em paz com isso. E se os leitores forem como eu, sentirão essa rebelião como dolorosa, porque desfaz a ideia que Barnes tenta encenar com esta obra.
Partida pretende ser um canto de cisne, mas como o seu autor sabe demasiado bem, não há assuntos terminados: «Quero que pelo menos esta questão fique esclarecida», dizemos. Como se isso fizesse muita diferença, na altura, ou mais tarde. A ser assim, não será esta despedida um gesto literário ambíguo? E se acaso se tornar qualquer outra coisa que não a última obra da sua carreira, onde é que isso deixa este Partida? Aceitá-lo como ato performativo seria uma hipótese, mas estaria isso de acordo com a elegância por que pugna o autor?
Há coisa de umas semanas, Barnes participou numa conversa com Ian McEwan onde, uma vez mais, refletiu — agora a par com alguém que estima e que lhe é próximo de várias formas —, sobre as manifestações da memória, do amor e da mortalidade. O resultado é uma conversa amigável, claramente íntima, com vários acenos, dicas e palavras que remetem para um passado comum a ambos. E então, a dada altura, McEwan interpela Barnes, com um sorriso matreiro: mesmo que não volte a publicar nem a escrever nada, o escritor não deixa de ser um romancista. Não deixa de observar...
Fazendo ecoar Saramago: Se podes olhar, vê. Se podes ver, repara, McEwan deita uma piscadela de olho à sua própria história. Em 2022, havia prometido que Lições seria o seu último livro, e entretanto, vimos surgir nos escaparates a novidade O que podemos saber. Lições foi, efetivamente, o último livro de McEwan, até o escritor escrever outro.
À sua insinuação, Barnes responde de forma desprendida: pergunta-me isso de dentro de um ano ou dois.. Vindo de quem, outrora, já tinha dado a sua última entrevista, não serão os rumores desta despedida, como a morte de Twain, um exagero literário? Pela minha parte, espero que sim. Se assim não for, Partida é uma despedida (ou despedidas, no original) emotiva e barneana, refinada e clássica, repleta de respeito pelo ofício do escritor e pelo seu público:
Quando me perguntam sobre o modo como vejo o nosso relacionamento, respondo que não sou um escritor didático. Não digo como devem pensar ou viver. Não escrevo ex cathedra: os romancistas não devem falar com os leitores partindo do princípio de que são mais sábios. Em vez disso, prefiro uma imagem do escritor e do leitor na esplanada de um café numa cidade não identificada de um país não identificado. O tempo está agradável e temos uma bebida gelada à nossa frente. Lado a lado, olhamos para as muitas e variadas expressões de vida que passam diante de nós. Observamos e trocamos impressões. (...)Murmúrios normais numa conversa, um (ou nenhum) dos quais pode acabar por metastizar numa história. Pelo canto do olho, vejo que partilha a minha atenção. Mas raramente apanho as suas respostas acho que está sentado do lado do meu ouvido surdo.
No entanto, espero que tenha gostado do nosso convívio ao longo dos anos. Eu gostei, sem dúvida..
Terminar assim esta conversa, senhor Barnes, é malevolamente enternecedor.
Devias escolher entre uma coisa e outra. É nestes termos que Jean, parte do trio que compõe Partida, se dirige, a dada altura, ao narrador. A resposta é-lhe dada por "Julian Barnes", o narrador desta metanarrativa a roçar a autoficção: Não me importo que não gostes dos meus livros, mas estás enganada se pensas que não sei exatamente o que estou a fazer quando os escrevo.
Fruto da confiança que a idade, o estudo aturado e o talento lhe permitem, Barnes ensaia neste livro uma despedida de cerca de quatro décadas de escrita. Naquele que é, assim defende o autor, o livro da partida oficial,(...) o meu último livro, a minha última conversa convosco, Barnes elabora, nos seus próprios termos, uma longa dissertação sobre vida, morte e amor, uma espécie de panegírico do escritor e do que tem sido a sua relação com o leitor.
Recuando à odisseia que foram os anos da pandemia de COVID, quando foi diagnosticado com neoplasia do sangue (que é bem mais comum do que o autor possa sentir, e que, efetivamente, não será suficiente para lhe assinar a sentença de morte), Partida constrói-se como um romance encaixado em memórias, encaixado em ensaio, e, a ser, efetivamente, a última obra do autor, é uma despedida melancólica para ser lida num destes dias modorrentos de um inverno longo que mimica o bom velho clima inglês.
«Incurável mas tratável» soa como... a vida, não é? Embora haja inevitavelmente alguns sonhadores que tentam escapar a esta equação existencial.
Num registo que brinca com a fiabilidade da memória e o poder da ficção, Barnes cria uma espécie de tríptico autoficcional e metanarrativo onde o autor se confunde com o narrador, e as personagens se apresentam como figuras de carne e osso.
Preocupado com a forma do legado do escritor e do homem, Barnes (o narrador) decide oferecer ao leitor uma história dentro de outra história: uma formulação atípica de auto e homodiegese literária que recorre de igual maneira à experiência e à ficção sobre o lento esmorecer do corpo, da cognição e das faculdades do homem, enquanto o artista ainda sente o ímpeto de criar e de partilhar com o leitor parte da sua energia:
Estou consciente de que em breve existirei apenas como uma prateleira cheia de livros mais um conjunto de Episódios Biográficos. E a vida não é uma tragédia com um final feliz, apesar do que a religião promete; é, antes, uma farsa com um final trágico ou, no seu melhor, uma comédia ligeira com um final triste..
Numa forma fluída entre o recorte, a diarística e a confissão, Barnes reescreve-se, denunciando o modo como a necessidade de autocorreção aparece com a idade, como o hábito da repetição, encaminhando o leitor para o fulcro da sua partida:
Nunca acreditei na serenidade da velhice — sempre me pareceu uma fábula concebida para a tornar mais admirável, e a nós, mais complacentes.
Barnes não é um narrador dócil, feito à ideia de finitude e disposto a aceitar o corte do fio da vida (e da obra) simplesmente porque já teve a sua parte. Não são de abnegação e arrependimento as suas últimas palavras. O Barnes de Partida recusa negociar com a vida (ou com a morte?); sabe que já vivemos milénios suficientes neste planeta para ter percebido que a vida não é justa nem séria, e que coisas más acontecem muitas vezes a pessoas boas, e coisas boas às vezes acontecem a pessoas más, e que o caos repentino espreita constantemente sob cada superfície plácida, e não está exatamente em paz com isso. E se os leitores forem como eu, sentirão essa rebelião como dolorosa, porque desfaz a ideia que Barnes tenta encenar com esta obra.
Partida pretende ser um canto de cisne, mas como o seu autor sabe demasiado bem, não há assuntos terminados: «Quero que pelo menos esta questão fique esclarecida», dizemos. Como se isso fizesse muita diferença, na altura, ou mais tarde. A ser assim, não será esta despedida um gesto literário ambíguo? E se acaso se tornar qualquer outra coisa que não a última obra da sua carreira, onde é que isso deixa este Partida? Aceitá-lo como ato performativo seria uma hipótese, mas estaria isso de acordo com a elegância por que pugna o autor?
Há coisa de umas semanas, Barnes participou numa conversa com Ian McEwan onde, uma vez mais, refletiu — agora a par com alguém que estima e que lhe é próximo de várias formas —, sobre as manifestações da memória, do amor e da mortalidade. O resultado é uma conversa amigável, claramente íntima, com vários acenos, dicas e palavras que remetem para um passado comum a ambos. E então, a dada altura, McEwan interpela Barnes, com um sorriso matreiro: mesmo que não volte a publicar nem a escrever nada, o escritor não deixa de ser um romancista. Não deixa de observar...
Fazendo ecoar Saramago: Se podes olhar, vê. Se podes ver, repara, McEwan deita uma piscadela de olho à sua própria história. Em 2022, havia prometido que Lições seria o seu último livro, e entretanto, vimos surgir nos escaparates a novidade O que podemos saber. Lições foi, efetivamente, o último livro de McEwan, até o escritor escrever outro.
À sua insinuação, Barnes responde de forma desprendida: pergunta-me isso de dentro de um ano ou dois.. Vindo de quem, outrora, já tinha dado a sua última entrevista, não serão os rumores desta despedida, como a morte de Twain, um exagero literário? Pela minha parte, espero que sim. Se assim não for, Partida é uma despedida (ou despedidas, no original) emotiva e barneana, refinada e clássica, repleta de respeito pelo ofício do escritor e pelo seu público:
Quando me perguntam sobre o modo como vejo o nosso relacionamento, respondo que não sou um escritor didático. Não digo como devem pensar ou viver. Não escrevo ex cathedra: os romancistas não devem falar com os leitores partindo do princípio de que são mais sábios. Em vez disso, prefiro uma imagem do escritor e do leitor na esplanada de um café numa cidade não identificada de um país não identificado. O tempo está agradável e temos uma bebida gelada à nossa frente. Lado a lado, olhamos para as muitas e variadas expressões de vida que passam diante de nós. Observamos e trocamos impressões. (...)Murmúrios normais numa conversa, um (ou nenhum) dos quais pode acabar por metastizar numa história. Pelo canto do olho, vejo que partilha a minha atenção. Mas raramente apanho as suas respostas acho que está sentado do lado do meu ouvido surdo.
No entanto, espero que tenha gostado do nosso convívio ao longo dos anos. Eu gostei, sem dúvida..
Terminar assim esta conversa, senhor Barnes, é malevolamente enternecedor.
March 1, 2026
A Life, Part Two
Yes, Mr Barnes, if this truly is your final book, you leave the stage with dignity. You have always written as though each book might be your last, and this one feels like a pilgrimage through your biographical and literary memories. I read it as a source of inspiration.
After so many decades of writing, I can see how the fear of repeating yourself might become a trap. Yet your wife’s words come to mind: that she would only stop when a new verb was invented to describe it, or when someone finally pinned her against a wall and told her she could no longer do this or that. Perhaps this is your case. And as you ask of me at the end of this book, I shall not stop looking at you.
Happiness often fails to satisfy us because we expect too much of it. As long as I remain someone in good health and spirits who dreams of exuberant happiness, I hope that by the time I am eighty I will have the lucidity and courage to accept that parts of us begin to fall away. To recognise decline is to stand in a moment of fragility, courage and daring.
Once again paraphrasing your wife—whom I’ve always admired—I’ll miss reading what you’ll no longer write 🤍🤍
Yes, Mr Barnes, if this truly is your final book, you leave the stage with dignity. You have always written as though each book might be your last, and this one feels like a pilgrimage through your biographical and literary memories. I read it as a source of inspiration.
After so many decades of writing, I can see how the fear of repeating yourself might become a trap. Yet your wife’s words come to mind: that she would only stop when a new verb was invented to describe it, or when someone finally pinned her against a wall and told her she could no longer do this or that. Perhaps this is your case. And as you ask of me at the end of this book, I shall not stop looking at you.
Happiness often fails to satisfy us because we expect too much of it. As long as I remain someone in good health and spirits who dreams of exuberant happiness, I hope that by the time I am eighty I will have the lucidity and courage to accept that parts of us begin to fall away. To recognise decline is to stand in a moment of fragility, courage and daring.
Once again paraphrasing your wife—whom I’ve always admired—I’ll miss reading what you’ll no longer write 🤍🤍
April 21, 2026
Julian Barnes bids farewell, building on his essay collection "Levels of Life", in which he writes, among other things, about coming to terms with his wife’s death. “Departure(s)” deals with his own impending death, which, given his cancer diagnosis and his age, he believes is likely not too far off. Thus, this book is his last, and he uses it to combat oblivion: he recalls moments from his life and counters the transience of the body with the permanence of literature.
Thus, the book is autobiographical on one level; yet his aim is not to retrace his life, but rather to approach—in an anecdotal manner, through loose diary entries and reflections—what defines a person: memory, meaning, and (romantic) relationships. In doing so, he draws not only on scientific findings from brain research (cf. IAMs) but also incorporates the reflections of great novelists—above all, of course, Proust.
On another level, the book tells the story of a couple who were friends of his, who parted ways in their youth and—through Barnes’s intervention—reunited in old age. In doing so, he uncovers certain themes while simultaneously questioning them: the idea of being destined for one another, the banality of everyday life, the disillusionment of repetition.
“Departure(s)” is a collection of astute reflections on aging, death, and life. Yet the themes make it clear that the book aims high—it is a form of navel-gazing that attempts to be unsentimental but ultimately fails to be so—a failure rooted in the themes themselves. Moreover, the form of meandering thoughts reflects the processual nature of dying, but in doing so comes dangerously close to arbitrariness. Nevertheless, "Departure(s)" is a worthy epitaph for one of the great romanciers of our time.
Farewell, Mr. Barnes!
Thus, the book is autobiographical on one level; yet his aim is not to retrace his life, but rather to approach—in an anecdotal manner, through loose diary entries and reflections—what defines a person: memory, meaning, and (romantic) relationships. In doing so, he draws not only on scientific findings from brain research (cf. IAMs) but also incorporates the reflections of great novelists—above all, of course, Proust.
On another level, the book tells the story of a couple who were friends of his, who parted ways in their youth and—through Barnes’s intervention—reunited in old age. In doing so, he uncovers certain themes while simultaneously questioning them: the idea of being destined for one another, the banality of everyday life, the disillusionment of repetition.
“Departure(s)” is a collection of astute reflections on aging, death, and life. Yet the themes make it clear that the book aims high—it is a form of navel-gazing that attempts to be unsentimental but ultimately fails to be so—a failure rooted in the themes themselves. Moreover, the form of meandering thoughts reflects the processual nature of dying, but in doing so comes dangerously close to arbitrariness. Nevertheless, "Departure(s)" is a worthy epitaph for one of the great romanciers of our time.
Farewell, Mr. Barnes!
January 20, 2026
I hadn’t realized until I finished that I’d been reading this supposed final book by Julian Barnes on his 80th birthday. I found that out when I checked Wikipedia to see if he was still alive. I think “Jules” would find that funny as he spends a good few paragraphs talking about how we begin to lose track of who is still alive as we get older.
Much of this book is about memory, aging, and whether or not one is or ought to be raging against that final departure which is inevitable for all of us.
I think the first section on memory and Proust’s madeleine was a bit tedious for me but I’m glad I continued on as I found his discussion of his cancer diagnosis quite interesting (I’m a former oncology nurse) and certainly his “re-kindler” friends and their failure was very cleverly observed.
The end returns again to memory but it’s also a farewell and I appreciated his “departing” words and that writing too.
Happy 80th Birthday Jules!
(Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.)
Much of this book is about memory, aging, and whether or not one is or ought to be raging against that final departure which is inevitable for all of us.
I think the first section on memory and Proust’s madeleine was a bit tedious for me but I’m glad I continued on as I found his discussion of his cancer diagnosis quite interesting (I’m a former oncology nurse) and certainly his “re-kindler” friends and their failure was very cleverly observed.
The end returns again to memory but it’s also a farewell and I appreciated his “departing” words and that writing too.
Happy 80th Birthday Jules!
(Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.)
February 25, 2026
Julian Barnes neemt met Departure(s) op waardige, eervolle en uiteraard eigenzinnige manier afscheid van zijn schrijverschap en aan het eind ook van zijn lezers. Waardig en eervol, omdat het een lezenswaardig boek is dat o.a. gaat over ouder worden, over leven en sterven, over herinneren en vergeten en over literatuur, inclusief een verhaal dat als ideale kapstok fungeert om de overpeinzingen van de auteur aan op te hangen en te etaleren.
Eigenzinnig, omdat Barnes Barnes niet zou zijn als hij het braafjes en binnen de lijntjes had gehouden. Nee dus. Alleen al de manier waarop het bovengenoemde verhaal - het relaas van daadwerkelijk door de auteur beleefde feiten, voor zover je hem wil geloven - tot stand is gekomen, leest als een échte Julian Barnes. En dat betekent witty, eloquent, naughty & tongue-in-cheek, om het met oer-Britse termen te zeggen over deze oer-Britse schrijver.
Het mag dan niet zijn beste boek zijn, het beklijft wel heel sterk omwille van enerzijds de erg persoonlijke anekdotiek en de oprechte overpeinzingen (zoals hij dat o.a. ook deed in Levels of Life) die je als lezer stevig met je eigen (al dan niet nakende) fysieke en mentale vergankelijkheid confronteert en je anderzijds doet genieten van welgekozen literaire verwijzingen (Proust, Goethe) en een opbouw die hij tot het eind met intelligent uitgedachte samenhang vol kruisverwijzingen blijft handhaven. Meesterlijk!
Blijft de vraag of het écht zijn laatste boek zal zijn. Ik meen te geloven van wel. Hij kondigt het bij het begin reeds aan, herhaalt het nog eens aan het eind en zijn argumenten klinken overtuigend. Je gunt het hem ook ... en toch denk je tegelijk: als zijn pen nog steeds zo witty, eloquent, naughty & tongue-in-cheek kan schrijven, waarom dan toch niet ... ?
Whatever: Kudos & thank you, Julian Barnes!
Eigenzinnig, omdat Barnes Barnes niet zou zijn als hij het braafjes en binnen de lijntjes had gehouden. Nee dus. Alleen al de manier waarop het bovengenoemde verhaal - het relaas van daadwerkelijk door de auteur beleefde feiten, voor zover je hem wil geloven - tot stand is gekomen, leest als een échte Julian Barnes. En dat betekent witty, eloquent, naughty & tongue-in-cheek, om het met oer-Britse termen te zeggen over deze oer-Britse schrijver.
Het mag dan niet zijn beste boek zijn, het beklijft wel heel sterk omwille van enerzijds de erg persoonlijke anekdotiek en de oprechte overpeinzingen (zoals hij dat o.a. ook deed in Levels of Life) die je als lezer stevig met je eigen (al dan niet nakende) fysieke en mentale vergankelijkheid confronteert en je anderzijds doet genieten van welgekozen literaire verwijzingen (Proust, Goethe) en een opbouw die hij tot het eind met intelligent uitgedachte samenhang vol kruisverwijzingen blijft handhaven. Meesterlijk!
Blijft de vraag of het écht zijn laatste boek zal zijn. Ik meen te geloven van wel. Hij kondigt het bij het begin reeds aan, herhaalt het nog eens aan het eind en zijn argumenten klinken overtuigend. Je gunt het hem ook ... en toch denk je tegelijk: als zijn pen nog steeds zo witty, eloquent, naughty & tongue-in-cheek kan schrijven, waarom dan toch niet ... ?
Whatever: Kudos & thank you, Julian Barnes!
March 3, 2026
‘I like some of your books but not others….This hybrid stuff you do - I think it’s a mistake. You should do one thing or the other’. So says Jean, one of the central characters in Departures[s], to another of its central characters, Julian Barnes. Jean would have hated Departure[s] as it is, if you’ll pardon the oxymoron, pure hybrid: a mixture of autobiography, essay and fiction. The fiction, which Barnes tells us is based on fact, has a beginning and an end, but no middle. Barnes introduces his fellow students Stephen and Jean to each other at Oxford in the sixties and they become lovers. Eventually they decide to separate and Barnes also loses contact with them. Forty years later Stephen writes to Barnes and asks him to arrange a meeting with Jean, and Stephen and Jean become a couple once again.
Early on in Departure[s] Barnes says it will be his last book and, at the end, bids goodbye to his readers. This is not because of his blood cancer, diagnosed in 2020, as the condition is incurable but manageable - a pretty good definition, as Barnes observes, of life itself. It’s mainly because he feels he has said everything he has to say in the novel and prefers to stop before falling into repetition; doing again what he has done before, but less well. This final work is a meditation on ageing, illness, death, memory, love, fact and fiction. Barnes writes about life with cancer, departed friends, an ageing Jack Russell Terrier called Jimmy, literature, and the relationship between life and fiction.
Stephen and Jean both confided to Barnes about difficulties in their renewed relationship on the condition that he never wrote about it. They have now passed on and Barnes has changed their names. So the responsibilities of an author to their friends, and the parasitic nature of art, are also central themes. Of course, one has to take on trust that the story of Stephen and Jean is true; or perhaps one should do nothing of the sort, particularly as in his opening chapter Barnes has told us that we should only trust novelists ‘when they tell us the beautiful lies of their fiction’, and be ‘genially sceptical’ when they tell us ‘where they get their ideas from’. He also addresses the reader, teasingly: ‘And yes, I follow you: if I broke that oath [to Stephen and Jean] how dependable is my promise to you of authenticity?’ It probably doesn’t matter, as Barnes seems to be suggesting that there is no firm line between fact and fiction, what happened and what we remember, and that in writing about our experience we inevitably fictionalise it. We simultaneously record and sort our experience in notebooks and diaries, prioritising certain things while discarding others, remembering what we want to remember and, if you happen to be a novelist, what might be useful in future fiction. A story with a hole in the middle also serves as a metaphor for memory, indeed life itself, Barnes noting that as we age childhood memories often become sharper and the middle years increasingly hazy.
Despite its hybrid form and diverse themes Departure[s] is satisfyingly coherent, touching, thoughtful, and often wryly amusing. It’s a short book, but its subtlety of thought and complex interweaving of fact and fiction invite a rereading.
Early on in Departure[s] Barnes says it will be his last book and, at the end, bids goodbye to his readers. This is not because of his blood cancer, diagnosed in 2020, as the condition is incurable but manageable - a pretty good definition, as Barnes observes, of life itself. It’s mainly because he feels he has said everything he has to say in the novel and prefers to stop before falling into repetition; doing again what he has done before, but less well. This final work is a meditation on ageing, illness, death, memory, love, fact and fiction. Barnes writes about life with cancer, departed friends, an ageing Jack Russell Terrier called Jimmy, literature, and the relationship between life and fiction.
Stephen and Jean both confided to Barnes about difficulties in their renewed relationship on the condition that he never wrote about it. They have now passed on and Barnes has changed their names. So the responsibilities of an author to their friends, and the parasitic nature of art, are also central themes. Of course, one has to take on trust that the story of Stephen and Jean is true; or perhaps one should do nothing of the sort, particularly as in his opening chapter Barnes has told us that we should only trust novelists ‘when they tell us the beautiful lies of their fiction’, and be ‘genially sceptical’ when they tell us ‘where they get their ideas from’. He also addresses the reader, teasingly: ‘And yes, I follow you: if I broke that oath [to Stephen and Jean] how dependable is my promise to you of authenticity?’ It probably doesn’t matter, as Barnes seems to be suggesting that there is no firm line between fact and fiction, what happened and what we remember, and that in writing about our experience we inevitably fictionalise it. We simultaneously record and sort our experience in notebooks and diaries, prioritising certain things while discarding others, remembering what we want to remember and, if you happen to be a novelist, what might be useful in future fiction. A story with a hole in the middle also serves as a metaphor for memory, indeed life itself, Barnes noting that as we age childhood memories often become sharper and the middle years increasingly hazy.
Despite its hybrid form and diverse themes Departure[s] is satisfyingly coherent, touching, thoughtful, and often wryly amusing. It’s a short book, but its subtlety of thought and complex interweaving of fact and fiction invite a rereading.
September 3, 2026
This little book is literally what fits in the hand. But its message strips the soul to its bones, if it has any. We know what we know but it doesn’t mean we agree with what we know about what we know. Life is made of those partings, far too many and too often. And life is made of the pains triggered by those partings, will or no will involved, give-and-take.
JB's voice throughout is direct, often brusque, and unsentimental. Essentially, now in his old age, he shows his way on how to greet adversity, how to weather criticism, how to bear bereavement, even how to test the impressions that arise in his mind. In so different ways the book is a source of inspiration and encouragement, especially for those lonely and courageous souls.
JB's voice throughout is direct, often brusque, and unsentimental. Essentially, now in his old age, he shows his way on how to greet adversity, how to weather criticism, how to bear bereavement, even how to test the impressions that arise in his mind. In so different ways the book is a source of inspiration and encouragement, especially for those lonely and courageous souls.
February 8, 2026
This book reads as a memoir (but may be literary fiction or a combination of the two). The narrator is a writer named Julian who tells us about his role in bringing two friends together, once during university days, and another time more recently. After watching their relationship fail initially, Julian helps them rekindle their romance forty years later. It also includes his diagnosis with an incurable but manageable form of leukemia. Major themes are memory (especially involuntary memory), love, and the eventual decline of the body through age and illness.
Barnes breaks a promise never to write about his friends by waiting until after they have died. The narrative deals with gaps in memory, particularly the missing forty years between the couple's two relationships. While reading, I found myself pondering the accuracy (or inaccuracy) of our memories. It is intimately written, as if the author is speaking directly to the reader. Julian Barnes is one of my favorite authors and I am sad to know that this will be his last published book.
4.5
Barnes breaks a promise never to write about his friends by waiting until after they have died. The narrative deals with gaps in memory, particularly the missing forty years between the couple's two relationships. While reading, I found myself pondering the accuracy (or inaccuracy) of our memories. It is intimately written, as if the author is speaking directly to the reader. Julian Barnes is one of my favorite authors and I am sad to know that this will be his last published book.
4.5
February 9, 2026
Julian Barnes's sense of an ending.
If The Sense of an Ending was about how we misremember the past, Departure(s) is about how we prepare to leave it behind.
Now eighty, Julian Barnes has called this slim but profound book his last novel - though whether that's true is anyone's guess. And really, how can one not hold out hope that Barnes still has another masterpiece up his sleeve? As it stands, Departure(s) is both metafiction and memoir, an artful meditation on memory, mortality, and the quiet indignities of aging.
The semi-fictional narrator, a writer named Julian unabashedly modeled on the author himself, begins by musing on involuntary memory before announcing: "There will be a story—or a story within the story—but not just yet." What follows is both that story and the reflective, rueful silence surrounding it. Barnes revisits familiar themes - love, death, and memory - but here they feel distilled to their essence, each sentence bearing the light touch of a master who knows restraint is its own form of grace. His prose remains immaculate: supple, wry, and deceptively simple.
The "story," when it arrives, concerns two university friends, Stephen and Jean, whom Julian once introduced and who later married, divorced, and - decades on, with a little help from Julian - found their way back to one another. Their rekindled love, shadowed by betrayal and the toll of time, becomes a mirror for the narrator's own reckoning: with illness (Barnes writes candidly of his incurable but manageable blood cancer), with the erosion of the body, and with the ever-trickier dance between truth and invention.
Ultimately, the most compelling thing about Departure(s) is the storyteller himself - the weary, witty, unsentimental observer who has spent a lifetime interrogating how art shapes loss. The real draw is not the "story within a story," but Barnes's own farewell. Whether this truly marks his final bow is beside the point; what matters is how beautifully he writes about memory and its absences, about aging, dying, and about the necessity, and the impossibility, of saying goodbye.
A quietly dazzling coda to one of contemporary literature's most compelling and enduring bodies of work.
Many thanks to Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage, and Anchor | Knopf for providing me with an advance copy via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
"Departure(s) "was published on January 20, 2026, and is available now.
If The Sense of an Ending was about how we misremember the past, Departure(s) is about how we prepare to leave it behind.
Now eighty, Julian Barnes has called this slim but profound book his last novel - though whether that's true is anyone's guess. And really, how can one not hold out hope that Barnes still has another masterpiece up his sleeve? As it stands, Departure(s) is both metafiction and memoir, an artful meditation on memory, mortality, and the quiet indignities of aging.
The semi-fictional narrator, a writer named Julian unabashedly modeled on the author himself, begins by musing on involuntary memory before announcing: "There will be a story—or a story within the story—but not just yet." What follows is both that story and the reflective, rueful silence surrounding it. Barnes revisits familiar themes - love, death, and memory - but here they feel distilled to their essence, each sentence bearing the light touch of a master who knows restraint is its own form of grace. His prose remains immaculate: supple, wry, and deceptively simple.
The "story," when it arrives, concerns two university friends, Stephen and Jean, whom Julian once introduced and who later married, divorced, and - decades on, with a little help from Julian - found their way back to one another. Their rekindled love, shadowed by betrayal and the toll of time, becomes a mirror for the narrator's own reckoning: with illness (Barnes writes candidly of his incurable but manageable blood cancer), with the erosion of the body, and with the ever-trickier dance between truth and invention.
Ultimately, the most compelling thing about Departure(s) is the storyteller himself - the weary, witty, unsentimental observer who has spent a lifetime interrogating how art shapes loss. The real draw is not the "story within a story," but Barnes's own farewell. Whether this truly marks his final bow is beside the point; what matters is how beautifully he writes about memory and its absences, about aging, dying, and about the necessity, and the impossibility, of saying goodbye.
A quietly dazzling coda to one of contemporary literature's most compelling and enduring bodies of work.
Many thanks to Knopf, Pantheon, Vintage, and Anchor | Knopf for providing me with an advance copy via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
"Departure(s) "was published on January 20, 2026, and is available now.
June 7, 2026
Demek buraya kadarmış sevgili Julian Barnes? Ne diyebilirim ki, sana her şey için müteşekkirim. Yazdığın her şeyi okumuş ve hatta seninle bir röportaj yapmak gibi bir mucizeyle bile onurlandırılmış biri olarak, bunun senden okuyacağım son şey olduğunu bilmek kalbimi epeyce parçaladı. Ama kim bilir, belki ölümünden sonra yayımlanmak üzere bir şeyler saklamışsındır bir yerlere, tam senden beklenecek türde bir şaka olurdu bu. Umarım yapmışsındır!
Ayrılışlar, Julian Barnes'ın veda romanı. Tam bir veda romanı sahiden, Barnes'ın edebiyatının en temel unsurlarının her birini biraz biraz barındıran bir kapsül roman adeta. Yine bir aşk üçgenimsi öykümüz var, yine eski dostlar arasında geçiyor hikaye. Yazar yine ara ara anlatıdan sapıp denemevari pasajlar bırakıyor okura, yine ölüme dair çokça akıl yürütüyor, yine geçmişle ve hafıza meselesiyle uğraşıyor ve tabii yine çok komik. Bir tutam ondan, bir tutam bundan, buyrunuz size mis gibi bir Julian Barnes romanı. Kendisiyle yaptığım söyleşide onun karakterlerine "şefkatli bir acımasızlıkla yaklaştığını" söylemiştim, o da bu ifadeyi çok sevmişti, burada da yine onu bolca görmek mümkün.
Ayrılışlar'ın, Barnes'ın en iyi işlerinden biri olmadığı şüphesiz ama böyle aşkla bağlı olduğum bir yazar "son romanım" diye önüme bir metin koyarsa ben de onu objektif değerlendiremem zaten, kimse kusura bakmasın. Bir de üstelik kendisi çok Proustçu olmamasına rağmen bu metinde bolca Proust üzerinden ilerlemiş olmasıyla kalbimi ayrıca çaldı.
Ben Barnes'ın her kitabında yeni bir şey denemesini ve türler arasında böyle rahatça salınabilmesini çok seviyorum. Burada da yıllar sonra tekrar birleşen üniversite aşıkları Stephen ile Jean'in hikayesini anlatırken bambaşka yollara sapmış yine ve ortaya bence çok, çok lezzetli bir şey çıkmış.
Şu cümleyle bitireyim: "Ve hayat, dinlerin vaatlerine karşın, mutlu sonu olan bir trajedi değil; daha çok, trajik sonu olan bir fars, yahut en iyi olasılıkla, sonu hüzünlü hafif bir komedi."
Elveda o zaman, Mr. Barnes. Yazdığınız her kelime için şükranlarımı kabul edin lütfen. İyi ki yazdınız!
Ayrılışlar, Julian Barnes'ın veda romanı. Tam bir veda romanı sahiden, Barnes'ın edebiyatının en temel unsurlarının her birini biraz biraz barındıran bir kapsül roman adeta. Yine bir aşk üçgenimsi öykümüz var, yine eski dostlar arasında geçiyor hikaye. Yazar yine ara ara anlatıdan sapıp denemevari pasajlar bırakıyor okura, yine ölüme dair çokça akıl yürütüyor, yine geçmişle ve hafıza meselesiyle uğraşıyor ve tabii yine çok komik. Bir tutam ondan, bir tutam bundan, buyrunuz size mis gibi bir Julian Barnes romanı. Kendisiyle yaptığım söyleşide onun karakterlerine "şefkatli bir acımasızlıkla yaklaştığını" söylemiştim, o da bu ifadeyi çok sevmişti, burada da yine onu bolca görmek mümkün.
Ayrılışlar'ın, Barnes'ın en iyi işlerinden biri olmadığı şüphesiz ama böyle aşkla bağlı olduğum bir yazar "son romanım" diye önüme bir metin koyarsa ben de onu objektif değerlendiremem zaten, kimse kusura bakmasın. Bir de üstelik kendisi çok Proustçu olmamasına rağmen bu metinde bolca Proust üzerinden ilerlemiş olmasıyla kalbimi ayrıca çaldı.
Ben Barnes'ın her kitabında yeni bir şey denemesini ve türler arasında böyle rahatça salınabilmesini çok seviyorum. Burada da yıllar sonra tekrar birleşen üniversite aşıkları Stephen ile Jean'in hikayesini anlatırken bambaşka yollara sapmış yine ve ortaya bence çok, çok lezzetli bir şey çıkmış.
Şu cümleyle bitireyim: "Ve hayat, dinlerin vaatlerine karşın, mutlu sonu olan bir trajedi değil; daha çok, trajik sonu olan bir fars, yahut en iyi olasılıkla, sonu hüzünlü hafif bir komedi."
Elveda o zaman, Mr. Barnes. Yazdığınız her kelime için şükranlarımı kabul edin lütfen. İyi ki yazdınız!
April 5, 2026
Am zburat din Londra direct în Viena să îmi rezolv niște treburi. În avion m-am apucat de cartea asta, ca fan al lui Julian Barnes ce mă aflu - am acasă un raft special dedicat tilturilor lui. Am ajuns să stau în lobby-ul de la hotel până noaptea târziu să termin această ultima carte scrisă de el. Nu m-am putut desprinde.
Pentru mine, a fost aproape sfâșietor. Deși e scris blând, ponderat, cu extrem de multă empatie și candoare, este totuși romanul lui de despărțire.
Își ia rămas bun de la noi, cititorii lui, știind că o formă bizară de cancer îi strâmtorează perspectivele. Nu am putut să nu suspin și să plâng un pic la final. Mulțumim, domnule Julian Barnes, a fost o mare bucurie să îți avem literatura atâtea decenii. 🤍
Vă recomand să citiți scrisoarea lui, care a luat forma acestui jurnal-eseu-roman. E ca un postcard primit de la un om iubit tare, pe care l-ai pune la oglindă, dacă practica asta ar mai exista :)
Iar dacă nu aveți timp să-l citiți, vă las aici două citate care pe mine m-au emoționat teribil.
◻️“Plecarea duce de obicei la sosire.[…] în gări, în autogări și în aeroporturi ne uităm la tabelele cu plecări și sosiri.
Plecăm, sosim, facem cale întoarsă și ajungem din nou acasă: trăim în orizontul acestei deplasări. Însă traiectoriile acestea aparțin unei versiuni mai mari și mai contradictorii. În viețile noastre, sosirea e prima, iar plecarea se produce la final - doar că e o plecare căreia nu-i mai urmează nicio sosire.“
◼️ “Unii iubesc, iar mai târziu jelesc ceva ce-au avut și-au pierdut. Alții încearcă să iubească și jelesc din cauză că nu au avut ceva - mai mult, jelesc în mod special faptul că n-au izbutit să aibă o viață care, în anii de după, ar putea duce la o suferință copleșitoare.”
Pentru mine, a fost aproape sfâșietor. Deși e scris blând, ponderat, cu extrem de multă empatie și candoare, este totuși romanul lui de despărțire.
Își ia rămas bun de la noi, cititorii lui, știind că o formă bizară de cancer îi strâmtorează perspectivele. Nu am putut să nu suspin și să plâng un pic la final. Mulțumim, domnule Julian Barnes, a fost o mare bucurie să îți avem literatura atâtea decenii. 🤍
Vă recomand să citiți scrisoarea lui, care a luat forma acestui jurnal-eseu-roman. E ca un postcard primit de la un om iubit tare, pe care l-ai pune la oglindă, dacă practica asta ar mai exista :)
Iar dacă nu aveți timp să-l citiți, vă las aici două citate care pe mine m-au emoționat teribil.
◻️“Plecarea duce de obicei la sosire.[…] în gări, în autogări și în aeroporturi ne uităm la tabelele cu plecări și sosiri.
Plecăm, sosim, facem cale întoarsă și ajungem din nou acasă: trăim în orizontul acestei deplasări. Însă traiectoriile acestea aparțin unei versiuni mai mari și mai contradictorii. În viețile noastre, sosirea e prima, iar plecarea se produce la final - doar că e o plecare căreia nu-i mai urmează nicio sosire.“
◼️ “Unii iubesc, iar mai târziu jelesc ceva ce-au avut și-au pierdut. Alții încearcă să iubească și jelesc din cauză că nu au avut ceva - mai mult, jelesc în mod special faptul că n-au izbutit să aibă o viață care, în anii de după, ar putea duce la o suferință copleșitoare.”
February 18, 2026
While billed as a novel, the story of two friends who met while at Oxford with him and who he helped reconnect in later life when they fell in love takes up little of the book. It serves as a trigger for the real purpose, that of Barnes’ swansong on memoir and memory. It is probably a treat for fans of his incisive wit, his clever use of language, and his prose, but for me, it was an OK read with a few thoughts to take away. Unfortunately, it was nowhere near as compelling as his ‘The Sense of an Ending’.
February 9, 2026
Estaba terminando el libro mientras aterrizaba en madrid y vi a lo lejos los cuatro rascacielos como único simbolo verdaderamente reconocible de la ciudad desde el aire. Pensé: qué intento tan burdo de relevancia, vaya imagen vulgar. Era una frase “de escritor”, mía pero convencida de sí misma, elevada y voluntariosa. Barnes logra este tipo de espíritu en quien lo lee: nos convence de que nuestras ideas más humildes y nuestras pequeñeces banales están llenas de literatura y que merecen tener una forma determinada. No sé si es algo bueno o todo lo contrario. Pero gracias. Ha sido un placer.
June 6, 2026
‘Departure(s)’ inspires me to two things - to revisit Barnes in his entirety and to thank him for the gift of this final work.
It is magnificent.
It is magnificent.
March 18, 2026
An erudite reflection on memory, loss and fiction. Barnes, 78 and suffering from a chronic blood cancer, shows his characteristic style and preoccupations in this short book
‘incurable, yet manageable’, that sounds like… life, doesn’t it?
More thoughts to follow, an interesting book (I wouldn't exactly call Departure a novel) on relationships, memory (inspired by Proust) and the body and mind problem.
‘incurable, yet manageable’, that sounds like… life, doesn’t it?
More thoughts to follow, an interesting book (I wouldn't exactly call Departure a novel) on relationships, memory (inspired by Proust) and the body and mind problem.
January 21, 2026
Is it fiction or is it non-? With an author as sly as Barnes, hard to tell. Nonetheless, with its Proustian references and trips to the past with characters (or is it him?) from his Uni days, does it really matter? I listened to the entire work in one sitting as he narrated it himself. And the ending made me cry.
January 26, 2026
"naš mentalni prostor biva ispunjen živim davnašnjim prizorima, potom sledi duga praznina, pa besmislena sadašnjost, dok se gomilaju dani koji se ponavljaju, i pometnja. naš život, drugim rečima, svede se na priču s velikom rupom u sredini."
teško sam podnela ovu knjigu. kao da je Barns bio pored mene dok sam je čitala, trudio se da me nasmeje (onim svojim prepoznatljivim humorom), a jedva se suzdržavao da se ne rasplače. Ostala mi je velika knedla u grlu. ma, srce mi se zgrčilo. verujem da će je svako ko voli Barnsa tako doživeti. 🫀
teško sam podnela ovu knjigu. kao da je Barns bio pored mene dok sam je čitala, trudio se da me nasmeje (onim svojim prepoznatljivim humorom), a jedva se suzdržavao da se ne rasplače. Ostala mi je velika knedla u grlu. ma, srce mi se zgrčilo. verujem da će je svako ko voli Barnsa tako doživeti. 🫀
September 15, 2026
Julian Barnes’ın 2022’de başlayıp, 2025’de, 78 yaşındayken bitirdiği son romanı, bir veda romanı, okurlarına karşı bir vefa romanı aynı zamanda. Hastalığı nedeniyle böyle bir karar almış ve yazmış, ama J. Barnes bu bakarsınız bir sürpriz yapabilir, Londra’da yaşamını sürdürürken.
Daha önceki kitaplarının bazısında değinmiş olduğu ayrılık, yaşlılık, ölüm gibi temaları okul yıllarından tanıdığı iki arkadaşının aşk hikayesi ile birbirine bağlıyor. Kendine özgü mizahi ve ironik uslubuyla kendisiyle, hastalıkla, yaşlılık ve ölümle kah dalga geçerek kah felsefi değerlendirmelerde bulunarak sonuçta hüzünlü bir roman-deneme yazmış Barnes. Bu ironik yaklaşımından Proust da nasiplenmiş.
Hastalığını “evren işini yapıyor” gibi olgunlukla karşılayan yazar, ölümü “sonu hüzünlü hafif bir komedi” olarak tanımlıyor. Düşündürücü, duygusal bir sonla biten kitabı kapattığımda onu özleyeceğimi hissettim.
Daha önceki kitaplarının bazısında değinmiş olduğu ayrılık, yaşlılık, ölüm gibi temaları okul yıllarından tanıdığı iki arkadaşının aşk hikayesi ile birbirine bağlıyor. Kendine özgü mizahi ve ironik uslubuyla kendisiyle, hastalıkla, yaşlılık ve ölümle kah dalga geçerek kah felsefi değerlendirmelerde bulunarak sonuçta hüzünlü bir roman-deneme yazmış Barnes. Bu ironik yaklaşımından Proust da nasiplenmiş.
Hastalığını “evren işini yapıyor” gibi olgunlukla karşılayan yazar, ölümü “sonu hüzünlü hafif bir komedi” olarak tanımlıyor. Düşündürücü, duygusal bir sonla biten kitabı kapattığımda onu özleyeceğimi hissettim.
May 19, 2026
I don't know if I have ever really "got" Julian Barnes based on my reviews of two of his past novels. I find him a bit languid ?
Departure(s) is his last "novel" and its obviously poignant because of that fact, its a goodbye to his readers, a reflection upon death and aging, memory and loss. Its also a curious hybrid of memoir, diary and maybe fiction ( I am not entirely sure ). I could take or leave the central relationship story ( Barnes's relationship stories are always odd pairings ) but all of his observations on the tricks memory plays and his little literary asides are beautifully expressed. The entire reading experience is soothing and I think ultimately uplifting in ways I was not expecting.
Departure(s) is his last "novel" and its obviously poignant because of that fact, its a goodbye to his readers, a reflection upon death and aging, memory and loss. Its also a curious hybrid of memoir, diary and maybe fiction ( I am not entirely sure ). I could take or leave the central relationship story ( Barnes's relationship stories are always odd pairings ) but all of his observations on the tricks memory plays and his little literary asides are beautifully expressed. The entire reading experience is soothing and I think ultimately uplifting in ways I was not expecting.
Read
June 10, 2026Two old friends remarry
In Barnes tale of his autumn
It fails; he gets dog.
April 6, 2026
This was actually wasted on me, having only ever read the Booker Prize winning The Sense of an Ending before, despite having owned, at various points in my life, Flaubert's Parrot, A History of the World in 10½ Chapters, etc., only to apparently have parted ways with them somewhere around moving house or whatever, because looking around me I can't seem to find them in my current flat. You'll see that annoying and tentative thing people do when they write about autofiction where they'll say 'Departure[s] is narrated by a character called Julian who lost his wife in 2008 and loves Flaubert' . . . In other words Julian Barnes is the narrator of this novel. I thought it interesting that this is reminiscent of Martin Amis's final novel as they had a relatively public falling out as friends when Amis ditched Barnes's wife as his agent. He wasn't sore enough to mention Amis once or twice, though. Of that generation's 'literary lions' (though I think only Amis was ever referred to in that way), McEwan has given us another novel recently and Ishiguro has been awfully quiet. Barnes is the one, out of those four anyway, that I've neglected the most. That is why this was wasted on me, because this is a swansong to his readers (for which I can hardly be called one). At one point he remarks that you (his readers) are as present and lingering as his cancer. Not the nicest comparison, perhaps, but he meant kindly. The final few pages of this are surprisingly vulnerable and touching, so much so that I cursed myself for not having read more of his books so I could feel a part of his closing sentiments.
Otherwise a lot of the book is dedicated to Barnes's ailments and hospital visits, which are never as compelling as people think, I guess, as we are only so obsessed with our own health. Leading the marketing of this book with the 'plot' about the two friends, Stephen and Jean, is a little deceitful; a fraction of the pages are really given to their story. It ebbs and flows throughout the narrative. But it's nice. It's wistful. It reminds me of Paul McCartney's new single "Days We Left Behind"; similarly, Barnes knows he is getting old and wants to have the final say. He tells us early on that this is his final book, so reading this is really seeing a writer at the end of his career quite literally saying thank you and goodnight.
Otherwise a lot of the book is dedicated to Barnes's ailments and hospital visits, which are never as compelling as people think, I guess, as we are only so obsessed with our own health. Leading the marketing of this book with the 'plot' about the two friends, Stephen and Jean, is a little deceitful; a fraction of the pages are really given to their story. It ebbs and flows throughout the narrative. But it's nice. It's wistful. It reminds me of Paul McCartney's new single "Days We Left Behind"; similarly, Barnes knows he is getting old and wants to have the final say. He tells us early on that this is his final book, so reading this is really seeing a writer at the end of his career quite literally saying thank you and goodnight.
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