Nothing to Be Frightened Of

Number six of the New York Times Ten Best of 2008 is a book-length essay by British novelist Julian Barnes that is essentially an examination of the fear of death. Of course, it's much more than that: it's about faith, or the lack of it; the imperfection of memory; and a deeply personal recollection of his family, and how they died. Fortunately, for a topic so weighty, the book is frequently chatty and funny. It's kind of like being seated next to a very learned, very witty fellow on a long plane trip and discussing the issues that are common to every human being.

Though death is the underlying theme, Barnes kicks off with God. The first sentence of the book is "I don't believe in God, but I miss him." He then records that his older brother, a philosopher, finds this statement "soppy." Barnes was an atheist as a youth (he tells a chaplain at Oxford that he is a "happy atheist," at sixty he as an agnostic). He takes a dim view of many views, from Bertrand Russell to Pascal's wager: "The Pascalian bet sounds simple enough. If you believe, and God turns out to exist, you win. If you believe, and God turns out not to exist, you lose, but not half as badly as you would if you chose not to believe, only to find out after death that God does exist...What if God is not as imagined? What, for instance, if He disapproves of gamblers, especially those whose purported belief in Him is dependent on some acorn-beneath-the-cup mentality? And who decides who wins? Not us: God might prefer the honest doubter to the sycophantic chancer."

Though Barnes is not a believer, he stills fears death: "We fall thereby into four categories, and it's clear which two regard themselves as superior: those who do not fear death because they have faith, and those who do not fear death despite having no faith. These groups take the moral high ground. In third place come those who, despite having faith, cannot rid themselves of the old, visceral, rational fear. And then, out of the medals, below the salt, up shit creek, come those of us who fear death and have no faith."

Barnes also calls on many other minds. "I should also warn you that there are going to be a lot of writers in this book. Most of them dead, and quite a few of them French. One is Jules Renard, who said: 'It is when faced with death that we turn most bookish.'" Renard is the central figure of the book (aside from Barnes). He also said, "I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for his reputation if He didn't," and "God does not believe in our God," and "Yes, God exists, but He knows no more about it than we do." Other writers and composers make appearances, such as Stendahl, Zola, Stravinsky and many others, including thanatologists, doctors, and always appearing at opportune moments, Barnes' brother.

Though Barnes notes this is not an autobiography, there are many recollections of his life, from boyhood to the circumstances surrounding his parents' death. He is hard on his mother, which must have been difficult, but she does sound quite impossible, a very controlling individual who wondered aloud whether it would be worse if she were deaf and blind and finally decided she would rather be deaf, because then she could still do her nails.

Barnes also has a personal relationship with the reader, frequently addressing him or her (or more precisely, me) directly. He ponders the writers' immortality, and wonders whether it is better for a writer to be forgotten before they die, or die before they can be forgotten. And he writes directly to that person who will be his last ever reader: "My last reader: there is a temptation to be sentimental over him or her (if 'he' and 'she' still apply in that world where evolution is taking our species). Indeed, I was about to make some authorial gesture of thanks and praise to the ultimate pair of eyes--if eyes have not also evolved differently--to examine this book, this page, this line. But then logic kicked in: your last reader is, by definition, someone who doesn't recommend your books to anyone else. You bastard! You're really not going to press my book on anyone else? You really are so mean-spirited, so idle-minded, so lacking critical judgement? Then you don't deserve me. Go on, fuck off and die. Yes, you."

Of course Barnes' tongue is firmly in cheek. This book is a great deal of fun for armchair philosophers, though the subject matter is not pleasurable to contemplate. I must say that while reading it I didn't really have the occasion to confront my own mortality. One writer quoted in the book suggests that people believe everyone will die except themselves, maybe that's me. Most of the time I was thinking about Barnes' mortality. Should I outlive the man, hearing about his passing will certainly be an amplified experience after reading this lovely book.