In these essays, writer Julian Barnes explores what is involved when we change our minds: about words, about politics, about books, about memories, about age and time.
Can’t make up its mind about whether it’s a single piece or, as it appears to be, a loosely connected series of ruminations ... I’d much rather he’d let that grumpy citizen do some loudly intemperate repining (speaking of lovely old words) but Barnes is the writer he is, and he shouldn’t have to impersonate a crank or an Audenesque eccentric for my entertainment.
Brisk ... It feels right for Barnes to approach his topic through autobiography, in the first person ... Barnes’s somewhat sheepish admission that he has never really changed his mind about politics seems, if not entirely admirable, then not all bad. Where the greater risk is that we’ll come to accept the unacceptable, it’s just as well to be dogmatic.
Barnes is always a compelling essayist, steering clear of polemical thinking to carefully consider all angles of a topic, and the range of his references, from Dadaists to John Maynard Keynes, constantly astounds.
