Oh Mr Barnes, what you do to me … *shiver*

Let’s not talk about the plot … let’s talk about the words.

In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when that moment came, our lives — and time itself — would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose boundaries would be at first undiscernible.

Tell me that doesn’t make you tingle. Tell me that isn’t the most exquisite use of language.

I want books that teach me words I’ve never heard or words I know but have never used. Words that add something to my existence. Words like susurrus, deliquescent, exegesis and lucubrations. I want books that use those words without pretention, without forcing them upon me.

Mr Barnes does that and so, so much more.

But time — how time first grounds us and then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them. Time … give us enough time and our best-supported decisions will seem wobbly, our certainties whimsical.

You cannot resist this book. You cannot. Read it. Then read it again. Bathe in the words. You will not regret it.