I currently have 5 books on the go (all having been started and with my promise to return) - a terrible habit. But I couldn't help a 150 page novella by Julian Barnes and winner of this year's Man Booker Prize, sneaking in for a couple of hours. A short and absorbing read but loses none of the sense of length with consumed meditation; on memory, of a life spent fooling oneself and remorse in later years.
Have you read it? What are your thoughts and do you find the ending frustrating? Perhaps some of the brevity in characterisation left you wanting? I think sometimes that a writer of command write's exactly as he wants to and not necessarily for the comfort of the audience. Never spoonfeeding exacting details to leave room for your own interaction and interpretation. Or perhaps intentionally, embedding the sense of continued misunderstanding and inevitability of never knowing everything of the whole truth.
The prose at certain points is so concise and beautiful, you feel both swept away by the mind of the protagonist and yet knowing precisely how it feels - turning windmills in your mind or blowing through cobwebs.
