Book Review: A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters, by Julian Barnes

It’s been well over a month since my last book review, coincidentally enough regarding another book by the same author: England, England by Julian Barnes. I was impressed by his skill in crafting an inventive satire as well as the philosophical depths he explored, though as a whole the book was not entirely satisfying. My wife had warned me it was not his best book. She suggested instead that I read A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters. And hey, it was already there on our bookshelf, so being the frugal person I am (and honestly wishing to explore more of his compelling style) I considered it a win-win situation.

The short version of this review follows: I really liked this book

The long version of this review, admittedly, I must approach with trepidation, the sort of which I have not had to experience in previous reviews. The reason I shall submit up-front: the very first chapter contains elements that I can only surmise (if I may craft this sentence in a way that is both fair while not attracting the undue curiosity of lawyers) were lifted from another author’s book. I’m not going to go into great detail, as I don’t wish to write a J’accuse, so much as innocently hope that someone – perhaps even Barnes himself – would clarify the situation. I shall touch upon this again, later.

A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters is not, strictly speaking, a formal history of the world, though it does shift throughout time. Essentially, it is a collection of stories and one or two essays, the whole of which makes some attempt to summarize the haphazard longings and deceits of humanity through history, with the recurring theme of Noah’s Ark sprinkled throughout in variously literal and metaphorical techniques. Some narratives are light-hearted and satirical, others are solemn and erudite. It is a book which, as a whole, has something to say about mankind – the big and small picture of mankind – from various viewpoints, the majority of which is not flattering. Yet, Barnes is not a nihilist; he sees our faulty strengths and compelling weaknesses as part of the way humanity is wired.

This is illustrated with both striking description and considerate attention to detail, particularly in the series of “chapters” (which sometimes are really just separate, standalone stories) regarding the shipwreck of the French frigate Medusa off the coast of Mauritania in 1816. With this as the central focus, the author devotes three perspectives on the event: one which describes the horrific facts of the shipwreck and its survivors, another which takes an entirely different approach by offering a historical critique of Théodore Géricault‘s famous painting based on the shipwreck, and yet another – this time purely fictional – which touches upon the themes of representation vs. idolatry with the painting serving as an afflatus for its determinedly devout protagonist.

There are no prescriptions for mankind’s delusions, no salve provided to alleviate our existential isolation, or our violent impulses. At the end of the day, summarized lovingly in the last chapter, we find ourselves compelled to go through the same motions, but not without circumspection which perhaps is our only saving grace. In Barnes’ world, humanity will always, ultimately, shit the bed (a phrase my cousin passed on to me), but not without looking for a means to change, even if that change is perpetually out of reach. It is evident that Barnes’ is one of us; he respects those, regardless of mental state, who are compelled to find the truth, particularly those truths which are only revealed to the individual and ignored by society-at-large.

And now, the bane of the book I mentioned earlier. In the very first chapter, a satirical narrative of Noah’s Ark and the Biblical flood, Barnes’ seems at first to take inspiration from Timothy Findley’s Not Wanted on the Voyage (Barnes’ book was published in 1989, Findley’s in 1984), a novel whose story is an equally slanted (and somewhat vicious) satire on the flood narrative. In both – told by a non-human passenger on the Ark – Noah is a drunken, abusive man whose pious subservience to God’s will pushes him and his family to violent extremes. However, the similarities – particularly in two passages – became so blatantly identical that I had to throw up my hands in dismay (a perfect case in point being Barnes’ use, in similar reference – just as Findley used in the prologue to his novel – the phrase “Not Wanted On The Voyage”, with Findley upping the ante originally by putting this in full-caps). Again, I don’t know what to do with this. After some research, I know that Findley was shocked by the similarities, however he decided not to pursue legal action because he didn’t want A History of the World to gain any more publicity than it had. My hope is that – at some point – Barnes will address it, “it” being so blatant when you’ve read both the novel and the short chapter. The fact that I can still recommend Barnes’ book is a testament to his skill as a writer, though this ethical discrepancy unsettles me.

A History of the World in 10 ^1/2 Chapters (ISBN: 978-0679731375) is available at any number of friendly, independently-owned bookstores. Or you can purchase it online. You can also find Timothy Findley’s wonderful novel, Not Wanted on the Voyage (ISBN: 978-0140073065) as well.