This
was a haunting read, with depth. The author effortlessly leads readers into the
protagonist’s recollection of his banal life as an average guy and then his subtle
rediscovery of certain details of that life that have long been submerged in
his memory, asking in the process philosophical questions about time and warped
memory.
Part
One (the recollection) shows the contrast in personality and intellect between
Tony (the narrator-protagonist) and his prodigy friend Adrian whom he adores,
captured during their school days. It tells the failed love affair between Tony
and his girlfriend Veronica. As Tony remembers it, the fault lies with Veronica,
as corroborated by her mother, who is sympathetic to Tony. Adrian goes on to
become a brilliant philosophy graduate of Cambridge. One day Tony gets a letter
from Adrian asking for his permission to date Veronica. Tony replies to the
letter, which he burns in a fit. Shortly after, Tony receives news of Adrian’s
suicide. Tony instinctively puts the blame of Adrian’s death on Veronica.
Meanwhile he gets on with life.
Part
Two (the rediscovery) begins with Tony receiving from a lawyer a sum of money
bequeathed to him by Veronica’s mother and her letter telling him to get Adrian’s
diary, which is in Veronica’s possession. Tony’s reunion with Veronica sets off
an unraveling of the deeply buried details of his past life that relate to her,
which details, along with desultory hints from Veronica, help him to change his
perception of Veronica’s and Adrian’s character. Everything is not what it
seems. The ultimate denouement is quite evocative.
The
main theme of the novel centers on the effects that the passage of time can
have on a person’s memory. Sometimes memory plays tricks on the human mind.
But time….how time first grounds us and
then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being
safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being cowardly. What
we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing
them. Time…. Give us enough time and our best-supported decision will seem
wobbly, our certainties whimsical.
‘History is that certainty produced at
the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of
documentation.’
‘History is the lies of the victors.’ ‘As
long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated.’
I’m
giving this novel 3.5 stars, rounded up to 4.
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