Arthur and George, by Julian Barnes

I’ve read a fair amount of Julian Barnes before (England, England; Before She Met Me; A History of the World in 10 ½ Chapters) so I had high expectations going into this book. I must say, though, that I was surprised with what this novel was actually like: not that it disappointed me—far from it—but that Barnes’s voice seemed different: steadier, calmer, far less flashy, and far more, in a word, mature. It is as if, as he ages, Barnes has decided to flatten out the idiosyncracies of his prose and settle for a slow, gentle, and perfectly just narrative voice, a tone that exposes the eccentricities of his characters with mocking them in the slightest, a tone that relates events without commenting on them, and a tone that, essentially, sees the world without evaluating it.

Barnes’s voice is different in every novel, actually, come to think of it, and perhaps that’s part of his talent, shaping his narrative, his very prose, to the requirements of the characters. In this case, both figures, Arthur, or Sir Conan Doyle fame, and George, an English solicitor of Indian descent are calm, completely standard Englishman, one with dreams of knights and chivarly and a career invested in a fictional detective, the other with a vicar father and an utter lack of imagination, and so perhaps it is only fitting that Barnes’s prose, in describing them, be so staid and steady as to be almost unnoticeable.

It’s rather pleasant, too, not to notice it, to receive events seemingly unfiltered through authorial judgement; this case, the events, the wrongful accusation and later acquittal of George, are sufficiently interesting to carry the day, and Barnes’s research is flawless: the ins and outs of the case, as well as the lives of his characters, both famous and non-, are presented in meticulous, all-seeing detail. I should think even Doyle himself could smile on the detective work Barnes must have done here.

It is hard for me, though, to apply any exuberant words of praise to this work: the novel itself is so stolid and unexcitable that it just wouldn’t seem right. Plus, it didn’t make me feel astounded, or amazed, or indeed excited in any way; I read it compulsively, of course, drawn along by the story line, but in a very unreacting and, I would imagine, English way. It’s a feature of the work, I suppose—the reader is drawn in and impressed at the very same time she is totally unexcited. So while, for the sake of its research and writing and character studies, this novel is clearly a great achievement on Barnes’s part, it’s also not the sort of book one, or at least I, would praise from the rooftops. Rather, I would hand it to a friend, someone else who enjoys a solidly enjoyable read from a modern master, and say something like, “Here, you’ll like this one.” And the friend would read it, and like it—because how could he not?—and start the process all over again, in a long chain of pleased, impressed, satisfied, yet totally un-giddy readers.