From the book
Sleeping with John Updike
"I thought that went very well,"
Jane said, patting her handbag as the train doors closed with a pneumatic thump. Their carriage was nearly empty, its air warm and stale.
Alice knew to treat the remark as a question seeking reassurance. "You were certainly on good form."
"Oh, I had a nice room for a change. It always helps."
"They liked that story of yours about Graham Greene."
"They usually do," Jane replied with a slight air of complacency.
"I've always meant to ask you, is it true?"
"You know, I never worry about that anymore. It fi lls a slot."
When had they first met? Neither could quite remember. It must have been nearly forty years ago, during that time of interchangeable parties: the same white wine, the same hysterical noise level, the same publishers' speeches. Perhaps it had been at a PEN do, or when they'd been shortlisted for the same literary prize. Or maybe during that long, drunken summer when Alice had been sleeping with Jane's agent, for reasons she could no longer recall or, even at the time, justify.
"In a way, it's a relief we're not famous."
"Is it?" Jane looked puzzled, and a little dismayed, as if she thought they were.
"Well, I imagine we'd have readers coming to see us time and again. They'd expect some new anecdotes. I don't think either of
us has told a new story in years."
"Actually, we do have people coming to see us again and again. Just fewer than . . . if we were famous. Anyway, I think they like hearing the same stories. When we're onstage we're not literature, we're sitcom. You have to have catchphrases."
"Like your Graham Greene story."
"I think of that as a bit more than a . . . catchphrase, Alice."
"Don't prickle, dear. It doesn't suit." Alice couldn't help noticing the sheen of sweat on her friend's face. All from the effort of getting from taxi to platform, then platform to train. And why did women carrying rather more poundage than was wise think floral prints were the answer? Bravado rarely worked with clothes, in Alice's opinion--at least, after a certain age.
When they had become friends, both were freshly married and freshly published. They had watched over each other's children,
sympathised through divorces, recommended each other's books as Christmas reading. Each privately liked the other's work a little less than they said, but then, they also liked everyone else's work a little less than they said, so hypocrisy didn't come into it.
Jane was embarrassed when Alice referred to herself as an artist rather than a writer, and thought her books strove to appear more highbrow than they were; Alice found Jane's work rather formless, and at times bleatingly autobiographical. Each had had a little more success than they had anticipated, but less, looking back, than they thought they deserved. Mike Nichols had taken an option on Alice's Triple Sec, but eventually pulled out; some journey man from telly had come in and made it crassly sexual. Not that Alice put it like this; she would say, with a faint smile, that the adaptation had "skimped on the book's withholdingness," a phrase some found baffling. Jane, for her part, had been second favourite for the Booker with The Primrose Path, had spent a fortune on a frock, rehearsed her speech with Alice, and then lost out to some fashionable Antipodean.
"Who did you hear it from, just out of interest?"
"The Graham Greene story."
"Oh, that chap . . . you know, that chap who used to publish us both."
Jill Owens, The Oregonian
"Marvelously inventive . . . Pulse sneaks up on you, and by the end, you cannot help but be moved. These are stories that illuminate characters not through dramatic epiphanies but real, small turns in the road and moments of change. [Barnes's] prose is rich without being showy; he has a precision and economy of language that at times recalls William Trevor. Above all, Pulse shows a contemporary master working at the height of his ability."
- Richard Schickel, Los Angeles Times "Of our leading novelists, Julian Barnes has one of the richest historical imaginations . . . His main business here is the present, particularly that portion of it that includes bright, relentlessly articulate people encountering the first pangs of aging and its discontents . . . His characters are never tragic. They are inhabitants of a gray-scale world, plugging on through life chastened by the experiences Barnes recounts, but not devastated by them. That may be why we identify with them so easily, so instructively."
- Megan O'Grady, Vogue "Sharply elegant, piercing investigations of relationships."
- Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times "Filled with gems . . . beautiful, elegiac tales about how marriages endure or change over time . . . A testament to Mr. Barnes's full panoply of talents . . . [He's a] confident literary decathlete, proficient at old-fashioned storytelling, dialogue-driven portraiture, postmodern collage, political allegory and farce, [and the] ability to create narratives with both surface brio and finely calibrated philosophical subtexts."
- Donna Seaman, Booklist "Graceful . . . Keenly funny . . . Barnes' tales are shrewd, piquant, and moving [and] his gift for deft, acerbic dialogue is finely honed."
- Publishers Weekly, starred "Companionship--the search for, the basking in, and the loss of--binds Barnes's first-rate collection . . . Dryly witty [and] poignant."
- Kirkus Reviews, starred "Elegance and versatility--familiar Barnes strengths [that] define this latest story collection . . . . Another impressive addition to an already impressive oeuvre."
PublisherKnopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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