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| Hearsay: |
Of the golden generation of British novelists now within hailing distance of old age, Julian Barnes is much the hardest to pin down. Martin Amis, Salman Rushdie, Ian McEwan – you know where you are with them, and have done for years.
But the unifying theme of Barnes’s work? The through line? If there is such a thing, it’s an elegant unknowability, a distaste for the business of sifting through the contents of his own navel.
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September 28th, 2006 at 6:38 am
Barnes is a fascinating case study of the artist who can’t repeat himself. I once described him as being like Beethoven, the
quintessential artist unable to repeat himself. Although Beethoven did try and perfect before moving on – Barnes is
more capricious, I think, and a joy for all that.