The Washington Post
Nothing to Be Frightened Ofby Julian Barnes
A NEW YORK TIMES BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR
A memoir on mortality as only Julian Barnes can write it, one that touches on faith and science and family as well as a rich array of exemplary figures who over the centuries have confronted the same questions he now poses about the most basic fact of life: its inevitable extinction. If the/i>… See more details below
A NEW YORK TIMES BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR
A memoir on mortality as only Julian Barnes can write it, one that touches on faith and science and family as well as a rich array of exemplary figures who over the centuries have confronted the same questions he now poses about the most basic fact of life: its inevitable extinction. If the fear of death is “the most rational thing in the world,” how does one contend with it? An atheist at twenty and an agnostic at sixty, Barnes looks into the various arguments for, against, and with God, and at his own bloodline, which has become, following his parents’ death, another realm of mystery.
Deadly serious, masterfully playful, and surprisingly hilarious, Nothing to Be Frightened Of is a riveting display of how this supremely gifted writer goes about his business and a highly personal tour of the human condition and what might follow the final diagnosis.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
The Washington Post
The New York Times
In this virtuosic memoir, Barnes (Arthur & George) makes little mention of his personal or professional life, allowing his audience very limited ingress into his philosophical musings on mortality. But like Alice tumbling through the rabbit hole, readers will find themselves granted access to an unexpectedly large world, populated with Barnes's "daily companions" and his chosen "ancestors" ("most of them dead, and quite a few of them French," like Jules Renard, Flaubert, Zola). "This is not 'my autobiography,' " Barnes emphasizes in this hilariously unsentimental portrait of his family and childhood. "Part of what I'm doing-which may seem unnecessary-is trying to work out how dead they are." And in this exploration of what remains, the author sifts through unreliable memory to summon up how his ancestors-real and assumed-contemplated death and grappled with the perils and pleasures of "pit-gazing." If Barnes's self-professed "amateur" philosophical rambling feels occasionally self-indulgent, his vivid description delights. (Sept.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
At 60 years of age, Barnes-the author of ten novels (most notably, Arthur & George), two books of stories, two essay collections, and a translation of Alphonse Saudet's In the Land of Pain-openly explores in this memoir both his life and his réveil mortel (deadly awakening). The son of an atheist mother and an agnostic father, Barnes describes in a familiar tone his realization of death and mortality with all the wisdom of one of the philosophers, authors, and friends he here so frequently quotes, explaining, e.g., that the notions of God and death should not be conflated because "God might be dead, [but] Death is well alive." Written in London between 2005 and 2007, with some focus on religion and morals, this work addresses the present as well as the many options that exist in the almost unforeseeable but always inevitable future. Whether God and an afterlife exist is ultimately left up to the reader to decide. Recommended for academic and public libraries of all sizes. [See Prepub Alert, LJ5/1/08.]
David L. Reynolds
It is the last two that bear most closely on the strange and marvelous new book Nothing to Be Frightened Of, by Julian Barnes, four-time Man Booker fiction-prize shortlistee, translator, and all-around international person of letters. Its publisher, Knopf, calls this book a "memoir" -- bait-and-switch publishing signage, seems to me, because it is really an extended meditation about death and the author's fear of it. In any case, this work resembles in some important ways Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, which in turn makes heavy use of Socratic elenchus.
"What on earth is he talking about?" you may well be asking at this point, and so I'll tell you: In The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud thoroughly analyzes previous theories of the origin and meaning of dreams, systematically disproves them, and then proposes his own ideas on the subject. In Nothing to Be Frightened Of, Barnes sets up all the classic efforts to ease the fear of death (afterlife, immortality through artistic creation, reincarnation, the fact that without death we could not have life, etc.) and, as Freud does to previous dream theories, through a sort of essayistic elenchus, knocks them silly.
The trouble is -- at least for Barnes -- nothing takes their place. Literally nothing, thus the at-first-glance anodyne but finally diabolically Stygian title. It is not as it first hits the ear -- pleasant reassurance. It's the opposite. Barnes is frightened -- obsessively terrified -- of the nothingness of death. He makes Woody Allen's famous thanatophobia ("I'm not afraid of death -- I just don't want to be there when it happens") look like existential-terror chicken feed.
Despite the mordant wit, erudition, and typically British understatement of Nothing to Be Frightened Of, the fear and trembling at its heart are always palpable, lurking in the background or looming in the foreground, and they probably explain why the publisher of this book is trying to dress it in the sheep's clothing of "memoir." There are very sad and funny family and growing-up details included here -- included quite regularly, in fact. Barnes, describing a point in his adolescence, says that given his mother's atheism and father's agnosticism ("brisk irreligion" he calls this heritage), he might have become Jewish, because he "went to a school where, out of 900 boys, 150 were Jewish. On the whole, they seemed both socially and sartorially more advanced; they had better shoes...and they knew about girls." He recounts his arrival at Oxford, where he announced early on to a chaplain, when offered a chance to "read the lesson" in chapel, "I'm afraid I'm a happy atheist" and to the "captain of boats," who offered him a chance to try out to row for Oxford, "I'm afraid I'm an aesthete."
With ruefulness and tacit forgiveness, he also conveys his parents' emotional reticence. He lets his older brother, Jonathan, a philosopher with whom Barnes seems at once close and at sword's point, do the talking, in a conversation one imagines they must have had as the author was thinking about this book:
He thinks they were good parents, "reasonably fond of us," tolerant and generous.... Highly conventional -- better, typical of their class period.... But," he continues, "I suppose their most remarkable characteristic ... was the complete, or almost complete, lack of emotion.... I incline to think that the strongest feeling Mother ever allowed herself was severe irritation, while Father no doubt knew all about boredom."
Jonathan's terse, corrective, and hugely funny comments throughout the book sometimes threaten to steal the show from Julian.
Barnes summons up other memories and anecdotes as well: teaching in a French Catholic school while he was at Oxford -- perhaps the origin of his lifelong Francophilia and an early indication that he would write the superb novel Flaubert's Parrot -- his work as a translator, various incidents from the lives of writers and artists he admires, particularly (natch!) the French (Renard, Flaubert, Stendhal, Ravel). And he digresses into epistemology and neuroscience and the inevitable obsolescence of our entire species and the life cycle of penguins. Despite a few too-abrupt interruptions and course changes, Barnes keeps the structural lines unusually taut for an essay: you want to know what's going to happen next. Unity also comes from the implicit understanding that everything here directly or indirectly ends up so much wheat for the Grim Reaper. Barnes dwells on the woeful details of his parents' deaths. He rejects religion's promises of an afterlife and supplies a devastating analysis of immortality through writing:
First, you fall out of print.... Then a brief revival, if you're lucky, with a title or two reprinted; then another fall, and a period when a few graduate students, pushed for a thesis topic, will wearily turn your pages and wonder why you write so much. Eventually the publishing house forgets...society changes ...and humanity evolves a little further, as evolution carries out its purposeless purpose.... At some point between now and the six-billion-years-away death of the planet, every writer will have his or her last reader.
Nothing to be Frightened Of makes short work of the idea of a "good death," quoting with approbation and agreement Sherwin Nuland's observation that just about everyone is terrified at the end, save possibly for the lucky person who, at the age of 106, enjoying reasonable health but just about to begin the inevitable decline, is felled by a falling safe or a catastrophic stroke. One would imagine that this book, in essence a Socrato-Freudian dismantling of every traditional consolation for death anyone has ever thought of -- including "living on through your children"-- and a frank admission of personal dread would plunge almost any reader into despair or at least dismay.
But it doesn't. It doesn't for two reasons. One is that it is so good -- an object of high literary quality and, paradoxically, great good humor that made this reader not care, even if only temporarily, about the sharp Scythe that awaits us all. His book is a poison that becomes, at least for a while, its own antidote. The second reason, which Barnes puts forward as one way of minimizing death's terror and then discards, is tied securely to the first. It comes, strangely enough, by way of that arch-atheist, Richard Dawkins, who simply says how lucky, statistically speaking, each one of us is to be here at all. The incalculable amount of happenstance that it took to produce you and me explains why religious people in particular refer to life as a "gift." It is a gift, even if there is no giver, as Mr. Barnes and I suspect, and as Richard Dawkins claims to know for a fact.
Dawkins refers to the unborn trillions of potential people who never got to be born -- because, for example, their almost-fathers missed the trains that their almost-mothers were riding on, or some other, equally arbitrary failure to connect. Barnes finds this idea of the wild contingency of our existence of no soothing use to the awful idea of having to die. I have often thought vaguely about this same kind of mathematical salve for mortality before, but it was only when I read Barnes's airy rejection of it that it seemed to me suddenly and almost miraculously comforting. Assuming any sort of decent life (which I know, sadly, is a major assumption), we are amazingly lucky to be here, in part to be able to read books like this one. If dying is the cost of living, it's a steep price, but worth it.
I don't quite see why or how Barnes so casually refuses to find solace in the axiom that if we didn't die, we would never have been alive -- never have had a hot-fudge sundae or sex, never have seen the sun set, never have awakened to a good cup of coffee, never have felt sleep restore us, never have known love. I would like to talk to him about this. Before it's too late. --Daniel Menaker
Author of the novel The Treatment and two books of short stories, Daniel Menaker is former Executive Editor-in-Chief of Random House and fiction editor of The New Yorker. His reviews and other writings have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, and Slate.
“Brilliantly written and also funny . . . cunningly composed . . . held together in a rather Proustian fashion . . . Barnes has an extremely lively mind, and a distinctive voice, which gives a certain welcome jauntiness or gaiety to his darker musings.” –Frank Kermode, The New York Review of Books
“A delicious mix of personal reminiscence, family history, literary criticism, and philosophical speculation.” –The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Barbarously intelligent [and] a rare thing in literature . . . marvelously engaging, even uplifting . . . Briskly, rigorously, this unusual book gives us something to think about until that nothingness comes knocking." –NPR
“Beautifully done . . . an extended meditation on human mortality, but one that is neither clinical nor falsely consoling. Instead, the witty and melancholic author simply converses with us about our most universal fear.” –The Washington Post
“Surprisingly jocular–although also dead earnest . . . highly literary, thoughtful but playful.” –San Francisco Chronicle
“Very entertaining and, best of all, wholesomely provocative.” –O, The Oprah Magazine
“Barnes is a writer of impulsive insights, many of them remarkable . . . of humane irony, antic imagination, and unsettling perceptiveness. He constructs a many-leveled scaffolding of argument, memoir, literary reference, and musings all around the dark pit.” –The Boston Globe
“For those who think that facing death is life's most pressing test, Barnes is an amiable and articulate companion [who] sees humor in the impossibility of finding lasting comfort . . . His contemplation of death invariably becomes a treatise on living.” –The Tennessean
“[Nothing to Be Frightened Of] call[s] to mind Woody Allen . . . Touching–and very funny.” –Providence Phoenix
“Just try to put this memoir down . . . A dazzling blend of wry humor, keen philosophy and perceptive observations as Barnes ruminates about the inevitability of death and what it all means.” –Rocky Mountain News
“Strange and marvelous . . . Despite [its] mordant wit, erudition, and typically British understatement, the fear and trembling at its heart are always palpable . . . It is so good–an item of high literary quality and, paradoxically, great good humor.” –Barnes & Noble Review
“Barnes is a great conversationalist, and this is a humorous book in spite of its serious subject.” –St. Petersburg Times
“Erudite and entertaining.” –Playboy
“A brilliant bible of elegant despair . . . that most urgent kind of self-help manual: the one you must read before you die.” –Men's Vogue
“Unexpectedly jaunty . . . On virtually every page there is a good joke, even when–or perhaps especially when–Barnes is writing about the grimmest events. Julian Barnes is wonderful at keeping awe and flippancy in perfect balance . . . One of the joys of this book is that it contains so many playful asides, so many exhilaration diversions from its gloomy central theme.’ –Mail on Sunday (London)
“Speculative and precise, intimate and metaphysical, capacious and democratic in the variety of voices, alive and dead, that are invited to counsel the author as he edges his way towards the void.” –Times Literary Supplement (London)
“Julian Barnes is a delightful companion and much of the book (its informal tone included) is like an extended and very interesting conversation.” –Literary Review(London)
“Compelling . . . witty and erudite . . . consistently interesting and entertaining.” –Val Hennessy, Daily Mail (London)
“Both fun and funny. It is sharp, too, in the sense of painful as well as witty . . . You are in the presence of a nimble mind in complete mastery of, and engagement with, his chosen subject.” –New Statesman (London)
“Intensely fascinating.” –The Times (London)
“Entertaining, intriguing, absorbing and so expansive that I was startled, on finishing, to note its brevity . . . Irresistible reading.” –Financial Times (London)
“Superb . . . [Barnes’s] funniest and frankest work yet.” –Daily Telegraph (London)
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Read an ExcerptNothing to Be Frightened Of
By Julian Barnes
Copyright © 2008
All right reserved.
I don't believe in God, but I miss Him. That's what I say when the question is put. I asked my brother, who has taught philosophy at Oxford, Geneva, and the Sorbonne, what he thought of such a statement, without revealing that it was my own. He replied with a single word: "Soppy."
The person to begin with is my maternal grandmother, Nellie Louisa Scoltock, nee Machin. She was a teacher in Shropshire until she married my grandfather, Bert Scoltock. Not Bertram, not Albert, just Bert: so christened, so called, so cremated. He was a headmaster with a certain mechanical dash to him: a motorcycle-and-sidecar man, then owner of a Lanchester, then, in retirement, driver of a rather pompously sporty Triumph Roadster, with a three-person bench seat in front, and two bucket seats when the top was down. By the time I knew them, my grandparents had come south to be near their only child. Grandma went to the Women's Institute; she pickled and bottled; she plucked and roasted the chickens and geese that Grandpa raised. She was petite, outwardly unopinionated, and had the thickened knuckles of old age; she needed soap to get her wedding ring off. Their wardrobe was full of home-knitted cardigans, Grandpa's tending to feature more masculine cable stitch. They had regular appointments with the chiropodist, and were of that generation advised by dentists to have all their teeth out inone go. This was a normal rite of passage then: from being rickety-gnashered to fully porcelained in one leap, to all that buccal sliding and clacking, to social embarrassment and the foaming glass on the bedside table.
The change from teeth to dentures struck my brother and me as both grave and ribald. But my grandmother's life had contained another enormous change, never alluded to in her presence. Nellie Louisa Machin, daughter of a labourer in a chemical works, had been brought up a Methodist; while the Scoltocks were Church of England. At some point in her young adulthood, my grandmother had suddenly lost her faith and, in the smooth narration of family lore, found a replacement: socialism. I have no idea how strong her religious faith had been, or what her family's politics were; all I know is that she once stood for the local council as a socialist and was defeated. By the time I knew her, in the 1950s, she had progressed to being a communist. She must have been one of the few old-age pensioners in suburban Buckinghamshire who took the Daily Worker and--so my brother and I insisted to one another--fiddled the housekeeping to send donations to the newspaper's Fighting Fund.
In the late 1950s, the Sino-Soviet Schism took place, and com-munists worldwide were obliged to choose between Moscow and Peking. For most of the European faithful, this was not a difficult decision; nor was it for the Daily Worker, which received funding as well as directives from Moscow. My grandmother, who had never been abroad in her life, who lived in genteel bungalowdom, decided for undisclosed reasons to throw in her lot with the Chinese. I welcomed this mysterious decision with blunt selfinterest, since her Worker was now supplemented by China Reconstructs, a heretical magazine posted direct from the distant continent. Grandma would save me the stamps from the biscuity envelopes. These tended to celebrate industrial achievement--bridges, hydroelectric dams, lorries rolling off production lines--or else show various breeds of dove in peaceful flight.
My brother did not compete for such offerings, because some years previously there had been a Stamp-Collecting Schism in our home. He had decided to specialize in the British Empire. I, to assert my difference, announced that I would therefore specialize in a category which I named, with what seemed like logic to me, Rest of the World. It was defined solely in terms of what my brother didn't collect. I can no longer remember if this move was aggressive, defensive, or merely pragmatic. All I know is that it led to some occasionally baffling exchanges in the school stamp club among philatelists only recently out of short trousers. "So, Barnesy, what do you collect?" "Rest of the World."
My grandfather was a Brylcreem man, and the antimacassar on his Parker Knoll armchair--a high-backed number with wings for him to snooze against--was not merely decorative. His hair had whitened sooner than Grandma's; he had a clipped, military moustache, a metal-stemmed pipe, and a tobacco pouch which distended his cardigan pocket. He also wore a chunky hearing aid, another aspect of the adult world--or rather, the world on the farther side of adulthood--which my brother and I liked to mock. "Beg pardon?" we would shout satirically at one another, cupping hands to ears. Both of us used to look forward to the prized moment when our grandmother's stomach would rumble loudly enough for Grandpa to be roused from his deafness into the enquiry, "Telephone, Ma?" An embarrassed grunt later, they would go back to their newspapers. Grandpa, in his male armchair, deaf aid occasionally whistling and pipe making a hubble-bubble noise as he sucked on it, would shake his head over the Daily Express, which described to him a world where truth and justice were constantly imperilled by the Communist Threat. In her softer, female armchair--in the red corner--Grandma would tut-tut away over the Daily Worker, which described to her a world where truth and justice, in their updated versions, were constantly imperilled by Capitalism and Imperialism.
Grandpa, by this time, had reduced his religious observance to watching Songs of Praise on television. He did woodwork and gardened; he grew his own tobacco and dried it in the garage loft, where he also stored dahlia tubers and old copies of the Daily Express bound with hairy string. He favoured my brother, taught him how to sharpen a chisel, and left him his chest of carpentry tools. I can't remember him teaching (or leaving) me anything, though I was once allowed to watch while he killed a chicken in his garden shed. He took the bird under his arm, stroked it into calmness, then laid its neck on a green metal wringing machine screwed to the doorjamb. As he brought the handle down, he gripped the bird's body ever more tightly against its final convulsions.
My brother was allowed not just to watch, but also to participate. Several times he got to pull the lever while Grandpa held the bird. But our memories of the slaughter in the shed diverge into incompatibility. For me, the machine merely wrung the chicken's neck; for him, it was a junior guillotine. "I have a clear picture of a small basket underneath the blade. I have a (less clear) picture of the head dropping, some (not much) blood, Grandpa putting the headless bird on the ground, its running around for a few moments . . ." Is my memory sanitized, or his infected by films about the French Revolution? In either case, Grandpa introduced my brother to death--and its messiness--better than he did me. "Do you remember how Grandpa killed the geese before Christmas?" (I do not.) "He used to chase the destined goose round its pen, flailing at it with a crowbar. When he finally got it, he would, for good measure, lay it on the ground, put the crowbar across its neck, and tug on its head."
My brother remembers a ritual--never witnessed by me--which he called the Reading of the Diaries. Grandma and Grandpa each kept separate diaries, and of an evening would sometimes entertain themselves by reading out loud to one another what they had recorded on that very week several years previously. The entries were apparently of considerable banality but frequent disagreement. Grandpa: "Friday. Worked in garden. Planted potatoes." Grandma: "Nonsense. 'Rained all day. Too wet to work in garden.'"
My brother also remembers that once, when he was very small, he went into Grandpa's garden and pulled up all the onions. Grandpa beat him until he howled, then turned uncharacteristically white, confessed everything to our mother, and swore he would never again raise his hand to a child. Actually, my brother doesn't remember any of this--neither the onions, nor the beating. He was just told the story repeatedly by our mother. And indeed, were he to remember it, he might well be wary. As a philosopher, he believes that memories are often false, "so much so that, on the Cartesian principle of the rotten apple, none is to be trusted unless it has some external support." I am more trusting, or self-deluding, so shall continue as if all my memories are true.
Our mother was christened Kathleen Mabel. She hated the Mabel, and complained about it to Grandpa, whose explanation was that he "had once known a very nice girl called Mabel." I have no idea about the progress or regress of her religious beliefs, though I own her prayer book, bound together with Hymns Ancient and Modern in soft brown suede, each volume signed in surprising green ink with her name and the date: "Dec: 25th. 1932." I admire her punctuation: two full stops and a colon, with the stop beneath the "th" placed exactly between the two letters. You don't get punctuation like that nowadays.
In my childhood, the three unmentionable subjects were the traditional ones: religion, politics, and sex. By the time my mother and I came to discuss these matters--the first two, that is, the third being permanently off the agenda--she was "true blue" in politics, as I would guess she always had been. As for religion, she told me firmly that she didn't want "any of that mumbo-jumbo" at her funeral. So when the undertaker asked if I wanted the "religious symbols" removed from the crematorium wall, I told him I thought that this is what she would have wanted.
The past conditional, by the way, is a tense of which my brother is highly suspicious. Waiting for the funeral to start, we had, not an argument--this would have been against all family tradition--but an exchange which demonstrated that if I am a rationalist by my own standards, I am a fairly feeble one by his. When our mother was first incapacitated by a stroke, she happily agreed that her granddaughter C. should have the use of her car: the last of a long sequence of Renaults, the marque to which she had maintained a francophiliac loyalty over four decades. Standing with my brother in the crematorium car park, I was looking out for the familiar French silhouette when my niece arrived at the wheel of her boyfriend R.'s car. I observed--mildly, I am sure--"I think Ma would have wanted C. to come in her car." My brother, just as mildly, took logical exception to this. He pointed out that there are the wants of the dead, i.e. things which people now dead once wanted; and there are hypothetical wants, i.e. things which people would or might have wanted. "What Mother would have wanted" was a combination of the two: a hypothetical want of the dead, and therefore doubly questionable. "We can only do what we want," he explained; to indulge the maternal hypothetical was as irrational as if he were now to pay attention to his own past desires. I proposed in reply that we should try to do what she would have wanted, a) because we have to do something, and that something (unless we simply left her body to rot in the back garden) involves choices; and b) because we hope that when we die, others will do what we in our turn would have wanted.
I see my brother infrequently, and so am often startled by the way in which his mind works; but he is quite genuine in what he says. As I drove him back to London after the funeral, we had a--to me--even more peculiar exchange about my niece and her boyfriend. They had been together a long time, though during a period of estrangement C. had taken up with another man. My brother and his wife had instantly disliked this interloper, and my sister-in-law had apparently taken a mere ten minutes to "sort him out." I didn't ask the manner of the sorting out. Instead, I asked, "But you approve of R.?"
"It's irrelevant," my brother replied, "whether or not I approve of R."
"No, it's not. C. might want you to approve of him."
"On the contrary, she might want me not to approve of him."
"But either way, it's not irrelevant to her whether or not you approve or disapprove."
He thought this over for a moment. "You're right," he said.
You can perhaps tell from these exchanges that he is the elder brother.
My mother had expressed no views about the music she wanted at her funeral. I chose the first movement of Mozart's piano sonata in E flat major K282--one of those long, stately unwindings and rewindings, grave even when turning sprightly. It seemed to last about fifteen minutes instead of the sleeve-noted seven, and I found myself wondering at times if this was another Mozartian repeat or the crematorium's CD player skipping backwards. The previous year I had appeared on Desert Island Discs, where the Mozart I had chosen was the Requiem. Afterwards, my mother telephoned and picked up on the fact that I had described myself as an agnostic. She told me that this was how Dad used to describe himself--whereas she was an atheist. She made it sound as if being an agnostic was a wishy-washy liberal position, as opposed to the truth-and-market-forces reality of atheism. "What's all this about death, by the way?" she continued. I explained that I didn't like the idea of it. "You're just like your father," she replied. "Maybe it's your age. When you get to my age you won't mind so much. I've seen the best of life anyway. And think about the Middle Ages--then their life expectancy was really short. Nowadays we live seventy, eighty, ninety years . . . People only believe in religion because they're afraid of death." This was a typical statement from my mother: lucid, opinionated, explicitly impatient of opposing views. Her dominance of the family, and her certainties about the world, made things usefully clear in childhood, restrictive in adolescence, and grindingly repetitive in adulthood.
After her cremation, I retrieved my Mozart CD from the "organist" who, I found myself reflecting, must nowadays get his full fee for putting on and taking off a single CD track. My father had been despatched, five years earlier, at a different crematorium, by a working organist earning his money honestly from Bach. Was this "what he would have wanted"? I don't think he would have objected; he was a gentle, liberal-minded man who wasn't much interested in music. In this, as in most things, he deferred--though not without many a quietly ironical aside--to his wife. His clothes, the house they lived in, the car they drove: such decisions were hers.
Excerpted from Nothing to Be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes
Copyright © 2008 by Julian Barnes. Excerpted by permission.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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How can you deny a writer whose disquisition on death begins: "I don't believe in God, but I miss Him. That's what I say when the question is put." Julian Barnes inserts his writer's hook at the start and happily never lets up. The theme of our extinction always is sobering, but in Barnes's memoir it is never without humor. The "brisk irreligion" of his parents and their passing are traced in honest detail. Interspersed are comments on mortality from the famous and near famous. Philosopher Bertrand Russell, an unwavering atheist,is asked what he would do if he "found himself faced by a deity he had always denied. 'Well,' Russell used to reply, 'I would go up to Him, and I would say, "You didn't give us enough evidence."" Nothing To Be Frightened Of is beautifully crafted by a superior writer whose narrative moves with swift, sure distinction. Robert Cecil
Every once in awhile a book comes along, say 1 out of 50 books, that reminds me of why I read. This is one of those books. Intellectually challenging, but never self-important or condescending, it is at the same time very humorous in a subtle, understated way. Many readers will not be familiar with the numerous literary and artistic references, but it will not get in the way of thoroughly enjoying the author's musings on death and the issue of 'what happens next'. Well written and very, very good.
Very informative, entertaining and funny. Much to learn about the history of what the illuminati have thought of death.