It's very hard for me to gauge the level of sincerity in postmodern novels, but I love mentally chewing them over. There's a section in the middle of the novel (the half-chapter) that is written as if from the point of view of the author (the narrator explicitly identifies himself as Julian Barnes), but is it really Julian Barnes? The chapter purports to be the centre of the novel, the key to it, but how much can I believe it? This novel (definitely the best by Barnes I've read) is made up of several stories from various part of history, and echoes and re-echoes dizzyingly with a series of characters, objects, words, figures of speech, gestures, and situations. Some chapters are incredibly funny, others frightening, others confusing, and one (about an American ex-astronaut), horribly dull. But it's absolutely bursting with intelligence, and though I do find Barnes a little overbearing, I really enjoyed this. Despite my uncertainty about sincerity and profound epistemological perplexity (clearly I'm at least picking up fancy words), this was a delight to read and mull over.
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