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The Sense of an Ending is the type of British novel ALL OTHER AMERICAN NOVELS TREMBLE IN THE PRESENCE OF. It is blessed with an aura of flawless, impeccable English perfection; the prose is exquisitely clean & concise, GODLY by most-- especially my own-- standards.

It is an uncommon, unpolluted work that should be embedded in psychology books everywhere: the gears of life are described in their rare light, in degrees that, you must agree, can only possibly come from another world, or another dimension. Barnes, like my other major European discovery of the year Michel Houellebecq, is a purveyor of human behavior, adding and utilizing British conventions of Modern English Literature in his own book. The occasion which hooks the reader, like in another perennial favorite by the sublime Kazuo Ishiguro's "Never Let Me Go" in which a little girl dances, a school teacher has a breakdown, is present in a similar, indeed also masterful scene, when a teacher actually tells his student he possesses the knowledge to teach the entire class. The reader won't let this one go from page 6. The knowledge, the expounding of it in our naïve brains, is terrifyingly constant: it radiates from the book like an individual's life force.

The small details present in literature-- from Desdemona's handkerchief, to Aurora's spindle's needle, to, in this instance, a hateful childhood curse, a simple adolescent note (think, obviously "Atonement")-- those small and almost invisible details always seem to carry an immense heft, a terrible burden of the psychological kind. This conceit, this must, is also found in our gorgeous mini novel.

"Sense" is at the apex of literary brilliance, my astute friends. & the gushing, for me, shall simply, without a doubt, not end here...