The Noise of Time, Julian Barnes

The Noise of Time

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In art of all kinds - whether movies, theatre or books when revolutions are spoken, the protagonists are shown as the heroes fighting against the cruel and despotic governments. Never giving up in the face of tyrannical and inhuman political agendas, with the freedom in sight and restoring the balance of good vs evil. 

However reality is different. The normal -the ordinary - the common man, I emphasize, whose spirit is crushed on daily basis living a life of fear and disappointment is waiting everyday for the axe to fall on him. Surviving each day as a matter of luck and evasive methods instead of living a free and desired life. An artist cares about his creation and freedom. So when commerce, ideologies or political agendas censor the art, he can choose to survive the change or perish as anything else is suicidal. 

Julian Barnes is a brilliant author and his passionate and rich take on such intellectual subjects is a pleasure. Each comes from a well of knowledge - art in socialist Russia, Soviet pessimism, irony, fascism, proletariat, opera and political propaganda. Even though the book is based in 1930-40s, the subject and the conflicts still stay true to our current world and geopolitical situations. 

The book is a treasure chest of wise quotes, they are smart, deep and oh so philosophical. I wouldn’t expect any less from Julian Barnes, even though by the end the book seemed like a rant against power by a failing artist. But that’s the thing, art is always at war against power just like the masculine vs feminine, left vs right, capitalism vs socialism. 

I always wondered how people can talk about politics. The awareness, emotions, patience and time to understand is considerable. But as we grow up we realize how politics tells us a lot about human behaviors especially a spectacle of cunning, evil and power. Why we have greed? Why is power so intoxicating? Why is art so soulful? This is why I read, to learn so much about human behaviors! 

Enjoy these lines: 

Genius and evil - Are the two things incompatible. 

These lines from the book are thought provoking. The words sound strangely true because don’t we all aspire to be a genius underlined with the symbolic good. However in this pursuit of genius, the aspect of power and control takes a nasty turn. The genius starts using the creations and inventions for evil pursuits driven by power and greed. Or is it already there lurking underneath - this element of evil a necessity to be either successful or genius. 

Destiny. It was just a grand term for something you could do nothing about. When line said to you, ‘And so,’ you nodded, and called it destiny.

And someone had vine up with the ‘glass of water’ theory. The act of sex, young know-alls maintained, was just like drinking a glass of water; when you were thirsty, you drank, and when you felt desire, you had sex. He had not been against this system, though it did depend on women being as freely desirous as they were desired. Some were, some weren’t. But the analogy only took you so far. A glass of water did not engage the heart. 

Nurses in the most advanced soviet on earth the parents might pay for the sins of the child, along with uncles, aunts, cousins, in laws, voltages, friends, and even the Nabo who unthinkingly smiled at you as he came out of the life at three in the morning. The system of retribution had been greatly improved, and was so much more inclusive than it used to be. 

The string can not help confronting; the less stirring cannot help evading. 

But one of life’s many disappointments was that it was never a novel, not by Maupassant or anyone else. Well perhaps, a short satirical tale by Gogol.

How recently he had sensed within him youth’s indestructibility. More than that- it’s incorruptibility. 

Once a matter of pride, then of interest, now, perhaps, of silent shame. 

Fear: what did those who inflicted it know? They knew that it worked, even how it worked, but not what it felt like. ‘The wolf cannot speak of the fear of the sharp,’ as they say. 

There had been a cheerful rudeness about them, an assumption of superior values. The fact that they couldn’t pronounce your name was your name’s fault, not theirs. So they shortened it. 

If at home you were spied on by the men who smoked Belomory, here in America you were spied on by the press. 

To be Russian as to be pessimistic; to be Soviet was to be optimistic. That was why the words Soviet Russia were a contradiction in terms. 

In his study, he would make Maxim write down a description of what he had done, followed by a promise never to behave like that again, and then sign and date this affidavit. 

They wanted martyrs to prove the regime’s wickedness. But you were to be the martyr, not them. They wanted the artist to be a gladiator, publicly fighting wild beasts, his blood straining the sand. He would try to disappoint such idealists for as long as possible. 

She was not fired for domesticity, neither by temperament nor habit. 

He had been as courageous as his nature allowed; but conscience was always there to insist that more content could have been shown. 

There is a point at which modesty becomes a kind of vanity. 

Perhaps this was one of tragedies life plots for us; it is our destiny to become in old age trust in youth we would have most despised. 

Sarcasm was irony that had lost its soul.