Barnes, Barnes, Barnes. You really do know what you’re doing, don’t you? This is beyond annoying – at one level. Why? Because I genuinely had every intention not to particularly like Elizabeth Finch – Part Two! Why put your devoted readers through Part Two? – but there is just so much Barnes for the Barnes reader that it still ends up being irresistible. (Too much of him might also be the thing to note here.)
Him? Isn’t it Elizabeth Finch’s story? Well, yes, it is. But all you need to know on that front is that she is one very idiosyncratic lecturer and intellectual, teaching Culture and Civilisation – no less! – and made known to the reader through one of her adult students, Neil. The rest, is ‘history’.
Let’s proceed, therefore, with some problematic ‘conclusions’, rather than ‘narratives’ – this being, ambivalently, one of the solid recurring concepts and features of Barnes’s fiction.
First: that Elizabeth Finch is, in and of itself, an act of interpretation. Not unlike his other fiction, for that matter.
What kind of interpretation, you ask? A seemingly absurd, highly experimental one, at that. One that was bound to ‘make a noise’. Okay, I will tell you, because its seeds are meticulously planted in Part One, in any case. And, this is Barnes: so irresistibly taken by his counterintuitive conception of history. Actually, so much so that he works his entire narrative around the concept that ‘getting history wrong’ is just what the ‘crooked timber of humanity’ does; it is our speciality, if you will.
Therefore, by testing a hypothesis – an alternative to the rise of Christianity – that would have paganism prevail, this text in turn gives rise to a moderate sense of disillusionment and disappointment that is so typical of Barnes. Needless to say, the wryness and bluntness are all there.
What of this history, on a purely historical level? It is, quite simply, that history arrives to us as always and necessarily an interpretation – an interpretation by the people. A Barnes reader knows this, but here what we get is the Barnes-historian, doing research and interpreting his findings around the idea of monotheism – and all its mono-counterparts – as the disaster of civilisation. One could argue that it was only a matter of time. He had to do this. To take his conception of history to its extreme consequences. There is, in fact, something in the incongruity between Parts One and Two (and the coming together of both in Part Three) that is blatantly deliberate. I would venture to say that it relates to Barnes's ultimate project: that of to some extent disqualifying or contradicting itself, thereby revealing the overarching principle of paradox in and of history – and the inexorability of it. It’s a do-a-double-take move for the reader. Much of Part Two is simply repulsive. And yet the logic of it is not defective. Barnes also has fun with it, of course. Julian the Apostate: he dismantles him!
Second: he really, quite literally, dismantles Julian the Apostate! What’s up with that? Well, I will say that it is fairly impossible not to register a pronounced element of self-importance in this text. It is, however, counteracted and problematised in more ways than one. The narrator, Neil, is a bit of a loser: far inferior to and in awe of the stoic Elizabeth Finch, his lecturer from times past, with whom he stays in touch until he can no longer do so. I would say that there is, in this sense, a sort of displacement of self-importance, though it is by no means complete. The narrative proceeds, almost entirely, on Elizabeth Finch’s terms. But why? You might well ask that question. Because, as you will find out, the fascination between student-lecturer does lead to certain fairly reasonable fantasies that rework the dynamics of the story, or suggest that other perspectives ought to be taken into account - the primary filter being ineluctably defective. Also, Neil takes great pains to specify, time and time again, that ‘This is not [his] story’. Another time he states: ‘In my case - but my case isn't relevant.’ Yet again: ‘This is not my story, as I may have mentioned.’ Barnes knows. He knows that he is pushing it. With all the ‘Julian’ talk. Is it all self-importance and postmodernist self-referentiality?
Third: and, is it all, merely, a Myth? Is that all there is?
While capturing the immanent contradictoriness of history, as well as its inconsistencies and ultimate inventiveness, Barnes also questions the mythologising tendencies of the human, and the human’s relations to other humans. Is EF, as he tends to call Elizabeth Finch throughout the narrative, merely a myth? ‘I sometimes get confused between memory and research’, he admits towards the end of the narrative.
There is definitely a painstaking effort to intensify contrasts and polarities, formally and otherwise. It is, moreover, excruciatingly painful for Neil to allow such an idea – EF, a myth! – to seep through. EF, the one person in his life who inspired in him some level of openness; who gave him ‘an idea to follow’, and follow through. He, the King of Unfinished Projects!
Is it all on EF, then? How much of it is (self)constructed? These are some of EF's preferred topics, to be fair: artificiality and authenticity. And, well, there is much to be said about her. Perhaps the time has come for one important endorsement: I absolutely love Elizabeth Finch. There, I have said it. I love everything she represents. The quiet yet passionate life led within the walls of a wholly unassuming apartment. The life of the independent mind, perhaps a tad (no, scratch that – profoundly) exiled, but never completely so, despite being Shamed. Her calm-and-collected stance. Her lucidity. The fact that she matter-of-factly, reasonably, and seemingly effortlessly opens up spaces for the inconsistencies of human nature, and affords no judgement. Her directness of vision, and – why not? – also her apartness, her quirkiness, and her hidden vulnerabilities. Not to mention, the full spectrum of her system of belief. Oh, there we go: that myth we were talking about just a minute ago. Mythologising literary characters!
Which reminds me:
I have, quite frankly, warmed up to Barnes’s at times eccentric or unpopular character choices. Yes, even the protagonist, who is rarely presented as the ideal candidate to make head or tail of events, but is one who – probably out of boredom or some concealed desire – is willing to take the time and explore the implications of the said events. There is also an aloneness about Barnes’ characters, usually unmarried or with a bunch of marriage failures to look back on, that I am drawn to. It is not uncommon for the isolated protagonist, following a trail in his ‘exploration’, to contact an old acquaintance out of the blue, and re-establish a sense of momentary though awkward intimacy. Some kind of fleeting connection. And – this is important – it occurs through a piece of writing. Notebooks, this time around, that lead to more writing, and the usual emailing. Contact tracing, we could say. What else?
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Barnes’s vision is ultimately one that I find interesting, almost against my better judgement (that is, the voice of judgement in me that registers an excess of privilege in his writing). He certainly does a more serious – less formally playful and ‘abundant’ – kind of postmodernism, which I am more partial to these days. His is a literature that knows itself to be ‘mere dispersal’, ‘merely an assembly of fragments’. There is everlasting passion in this – think of how he develops the hypothesis of ‘Apostasy’! – and yet: ‘maybe a consistent narrative is a delusion, as is trying to reconcile conflicting judgements.’ Stoicism or cynicism? What would the compromise between the two look like? The tentative answer to that, I would say, is dissimulated in the complex movements of this text.
I feel that readers of Barnes should definitely look into this and make up their own mind about it. Fair warning: it might test your love for him. (Could he really be testing our loyalty? I wonder.) But you do have to read it.
Thanks go to NetGalley, publisher, and author for this one special ARC. All thoughts expressed here are my own.