The sense of an ending - Julian Barnes. 그리고 아무말도 하지 않았다.

... How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.

... What is history? Any thoughts, Webster?
- 'History is the lies of the victors,' I replied, a little too quickly.
...Yes, I was rather afraid you'd say that. Well, as long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated... 'Finn?
- History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of 

... There is the question of accumulation (...) just the simple adding up and adding on of life. And as the poet pointed out, there is a difference between addition and increase.

...Life is a gift bestowed without anyone asking for it; that the thinking person has a philosophical duty to examine both the nature of life and the conditions it comes with; and that if this person decides to renounce the gift no one asks for, it is the moral and human duty to act on the consequences of that decision.

... We live in time - it holds us and molds us - but I never felt I understood it very well. And I'm not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist elsewhere in parallel versions. No, I mean ordinary, everyday time, which clocks and watches assure us passes regularly: tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time's malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing - until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return.

... But 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 we 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.

... What did I know of life, I who had lived so carefully? Who had neither won nor lost, but just let life happen to him? Who had the usual ambitions and settled all too quickly for them not being realised? Who avoided being hurt and called it a capacity for survival? Who paid his bills, stayed on good terms with everyone as far as possible, for whom ecstasy and despair soon became just words once read in novels? One whose self-rebukes never really inflicted pain? Well, there was all this to reflect upon, while I endured a special kind of remorse: a hurt inflicted at long last on one who always thought he knew how to avoid being hurt - and inflicted for precisely that reason.


기억과 시간이란 주제는 늘 흥미로운 것이지만, 사실 그것들에 대한 생각의 비중을 필요 이상으로 너무 많이 두고 사는 것 같다고 자각하고 나서 의식적으로 피하려고 노력 중이(었)다. 그런데 이게 왠걸, 사전지식 없이 집어든 책에선 끝없이 기억과 시간을 사고한다. 구구절절 동감하면서도 편파적인 내 취향에 괜한 죄책감마저 느끼고는, 잠시 읽는 걸 쉴까, 하다가 너무 재미있어서 끝까지 읽을 수 밖에 없었다. 읽은 후 생각은 나중으로 미뤄두고, '제목'만 보고 떠오른 노래만.... (그런데 가사도 아주 동떨어지진 않는 듯...)


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