Julian Barnes: "You don't become a great novelist until you're dead. Worrying about prestige is a waste of breath"

LondonJulian Barnes (Leicester, 1946) welcomes the ARA team to his home in North London. "I've lived here for over 40 years," he says, slowly climbing the stairs to the library where we’ll chat for a while. His first words are to thank this reporter for making the trip to his haven. "On the contrary, it's a privilege to be here," I reply.

An hour and a half later, as we say goodbye—having discussed life and literature, death and love, football and politics—we turn to the usual topic. "What a cold morning, isn't it?" he remarks, helping me into my coat. "Typical London!" I reply. "Of course, of course!" he smiles. He closes the door with a warm, endearing expression, letting the ice and dampness—more pronounced in this part of the city than in the center—melt away under the echo of his thoughts.

The contrast between the exterior and the library is striking. Outside, the world seems out of control, lately much wilder than usual. Inside, everything is marked by cordiality and intellectual warmth. This is not only due to the fireplace, where wood burns without crackling—one more element of the sanctuary's decor—but also the large billiard table, now closed off and lined with books. To avoid temptation, perhaps? "I don't play anymore because I have a shoulder injury," he explains.

Barnes, author of seminal works of British literature such as Flaubert's Parrot (1984), England, England (1998), Arthur & George (2005), and The Sense of an Ending (2011; Booker Prize), has turned 80 and has just released his latest book. It is "latest" not only because it is his newest work, but because he has announced it will be his last. He isn't "laying down his weapons," however—the pen, in his case, as he first writes by hand, then types, and finally finishes on a computer—since he will continue to practice journalism. Combative journalism. The title of the book leaves no room for doubt: Comiats in the Catalan edition by Angle Editorial, translated by Alexandre Gombau (Despedidas in the Spanish edition from Anagrama, translated by Jaime Zulaika).

Is there perhaps a more subtle point in the original English title, Departure(s)? One cannot forget that it is also the common word in airports for journeys. In this case, we mustn't lose sight of the final journey we all must make, for which Barnes prepares through a delightful story about life's inevitable losses—which are also its treasures. This relatively short text will be much appreciated by his fans. Besides a love story told in two parts, forty years distance, the author also explains, in his usual hybrid style, the impact of his illness: a blood cancer that, in all likelihood, will not kill him.

Now that we're settled, the first question is simply a matter of courtesy.

How are you?

— I’m stable. I’m receiving good medical treatment, and there’s only a 4% or 5% chance that my cancer will progress to something unpleasant. But you know how it is: I’m getting older, I get tired more easily, and I wonder—as I say in the book: Is it the cancer? Is it the chemotherapy? Or is it simply old age? Deep down, it doesn’t really matter. I have to face it."

Perhaps that’s just life, isn't it?

— Definitely.

The original English title is more ambiguous than the Catalan or Spanish versions. Why Departure(s)? Why the choice of the plural? One wonders if he is saying goodbye to life, to his craft, or to his readers…

— I’m talking about that final farewell that is death, but also all the other farewells we encounter in life: the loss of loved ones, the end of love, the cessation of travel...

You said that Departure(s) is to be your final work. Do you feel you've truly exhausted everything you wanted to express? How and when did the realization hit you that you had finally said it all?

— About five years ago, when I was 75, I started thinking about what lay ahead—about when I would write my last book. Would it be any good? Would I die with a work half-finished? I was preoccupied with these thoughts. Then, I devised a strategy: I would write my final book while I was still working on others; that way, it would already be done and waiting. A book that would serve as a kind of final statement. But when I finished the previous book, I went through all my notes—I keep numerous notebooks where I jot down ideas—and none of them felt like a book I wanted to write now. They were for books I might have wanted to write five or ten years ago. So I thought: 'Well, write this one as if it were the last, and see if more ideas come to you while you’re at it.' But they didn't. On the contrary, I became increasingly convinced that I had already said everything I had to say—that I had finally played all my notes.

Just as you, or the character Julian Barnes in your new book, break the promise you made to Stephen and Jean never to write about them, couldn't you break your promise to your readers as well and publish one more book?

— I haven’t made any promises to my readers! Where did I ever promise that I would keep writing books until the day I die?

Okay, fine, perhaps it’s not a promise. But it feels like a commitment that we, as your readers, believe you’ve made to us—and you can't just abandon us like that!

— Do you know any writers who have written anything of note after the age of 80? If you keep going, you inevitably hear people say: 'Oh, poor man, he’s getting older. He’s run out of ideas. He’s just writing pale imitations of his old books..."

In Departure(s), I’ve encountered echoes of your earlier work and noticed connections to your previous books, yet I still find those themes compelling

— You're very kind. But you're not going to convince me.

I’m not trying to convince you of anything. But if you’ll allow me: starting a new book is, or can be, an affirmation of life—a way of saying, 'I’m writing a book, therefore I cannot die.' If you look at it that way, wouldn't you reconsider?

— That’s very kind of you. And I suggest you write a novel; a Julian Barnes novel. I give you permission to write a book that is, supposedly, a Julian Barnes novel.

Thank you very much, but that would violate one of the rules you set out in Flaubert's Parrot. I forget the exact number, but it says—more or less—that one shouldn't write about other people, but rather stick to one's own stories.

— That’s what I think, yes. It was just a thought.

Tell me—are you afraid of death?

— Yes, and it’s only natural to be afraid of death. I have no religious beliefs; I don't believe there is anything beyond. And so, I fear and detest the very idea of it. It’s terrible. I know it’s inevitable, but I think I feared it more when I was younger. As you get older and your body begins to fail, your perspective changes. I mean, if you die at forty, you’re devastated because you’re in your prime. But if you die at eighty or ninety, it isn’t quite the same. It’s a total loss, obviously, but perhaps not such a great loss.He's a supporter of euthanasia, isn't he? So, when the time comes, perhaps he would consider it?

I suppose you are in favor of euthanasia? In that case, would you turn to it when the moment arrives?

— Yes. If I were in constant, intractable pain, and if—in my opinion—my life were no longer worth living, I believe it is every human being's right to end their own life.

To depart with dignity.

— Yes, I am a patron of an organization called Dignity in Dying. I have been for the last ten years. There is a bill in Parliament now, but it's stuck in the House of Lords. There are people who have genuine medical concerns about it, and then there are those with theological reservations. It's extraordinary that in 2026 the House of Lords still has twenty-five or twenty-six bishops. The only other legislative body in the world that has priests—or whatever they are—is in Iran. Interesting comparison, isn't it?

We can call it the English tradition, if you like.

— It used to be said that the Church of England was the "Conservative Party at prayer. Unfortunately, I'm not a Conservative, so…

Your new book engages with memory, love, friendship, aging, the place of literature in our lives, and death—specifically one's own death. Which of these themes did you feel the greatest need to write about?

— I don't think of my writing that way. I don't believe it's more important to write about death than about love. They're equally important. Memory is, too. In fact, I always write about memory. It's a mystery I certainly haven't solved, though I've written a great deal about it.

But, precisely in Flaubert's Parrot, you wrote that "the past often behaves like a piglet smeared with grease." If it's so elusive, what's the point of writing about it?

— Well, someone has to get hold of the pig, right? And if you can hold onto it for a while, even briefly, then you can talk about it.

But it will always be an illusion—fiction.

— I once had a long discussion with my brother, who is a philosopher, which I incorporated into my book Nothing to Be Frightened Of, which dealt with family and death. I remember him saying that, in his opinion, memory was more akin to imagination than a faithful account of what actually happened. Today, I agree. It's closer to imagination. And yet, as in the case of the "Involuntary Autobiographical Memory" I discuss at the beginning of the book, this is also part of our strangeness—of our relationship with the brain and the way it doesn't explain everything to us. If it did, we'd go crazy. I mean, we can't… If you suddenly eat a meat pie and remember every other meat pie you've ever eaten… Freud said it was all up there in the brain, but… we could not live if we remembered everything.

We could not live if we remembered everything, like Borges' character in Funes, the memorious.

— Exact.

Let's talk about your style. Your first two novels were, let's say, conventional. But from Flaubert's Parrot onwards, you developed a hybrid style—one that, incidentally, Jane (a central character in Departur(s)) doesn't like at all. When did you realize that you wanted, or needed, to break away from the style of Metroland?

— Ugh, you should have asked me that forty years ago! When you're starting out, nobody teaches you how to write a novel, except, of course, the novelists of the past. Inevitably—as was the case for me—my first two books were conventionally structured. It was a matter of confidence. I didn't have enough of it to write a hybrid or "different" kind of novel until I'd published two books. Then I thought: I want to write a different kind of book. The subject of Flaubert also played a part. I knew I had to write about him at some point, but I didn't want to produce a biography, or an essay, or anything like that. Nor did I want to write his "autobiography," so to speak. I wanted to write about someone who had a relationship with Flaubert. So I began—as far as I can remember—to develop the idea of a kind of "muddled" novel, with a large amount of factual material to keep the ship stable and afloat, and a fictional superstructure related to themes in his work and life. At one point, I think I wrote one of the chapters as a short story, and then I thought, "Ah, I could write more." It evolved from a collection of stories into a novel that moved in and out of his life. From then on, I had the freedom to write a book with an inventive structure if I wanted, or, if the subject demanded it, to do so in a conventional way.

No more about books for a moment—let's talk about journalism. What are your thoughts on the political state of the UK and the world? The end of Farewells feels quite pessimistic, which makes sense when you look at the rise of Farage here or what’s happening in America.

— A Farage victory would be a disaster. And yes, I am pessimistic about the state of the world. I am pessimistic because of the climate crisis, which no one is doing anything about except to continue drilling—including in the North Sea. We had hoped that international cooperation could solve our problems, and that this was the only way forward. But now… It is deeply disheartening to have someone in the White House who isn’t very intelligent yet thinks he’s a genius, and who is incredibly narcissistic. He has no sense of the truth. When he first became president, Philip Roth wrote a short article in The New Yorker listing all the things Trump didn't understand: the Constitution, democracy, a whole host of things. He didn't understand them then, and he still doesn't. He hasn't learned a thing, and he doesn't want to. Why should he, when he's surrounded by sycophants who refuse to tell him the truth?

Are you disappointed with the prime minister, Keir Starmer?

— Yes, I am. He was elected leader on a platform that was essentially Corbynist—social-democratic—and what he's done since is gradually dismantle all of those policies. In any case, I can only hope that in the next three or four years, people will come to see that Farage is not the solution.

The last sentence of the book says, 'Never stop looking.' By that, did you mean to tell us never to stop reading?

— Not exactly. I meant that one shouldn't stop looking at life as closely as possible. Reading is one way of looking closely at life, but there is more to it than that—so it is included, of course

Jorge Herralde—your long-time Spanish publisher and the founder of Anagrama—referred to you, Ian McEwan, Martin Amis, and Kazuo Ishiguro as the 'dream team' of British literature. To what extent was his role relevant in consolidating that famous 1983 Granta generation internationally, beyond the Anglosphere? I’ve brought a photo of Herralde here, acting as the team’s 'manager' with eleven players. Curiously, Ian McEwan isn't in it.

— Well, Herralde is a charming man, a brilliant publisher, and also an excellent publicist. Comparing us to the 'Dream Team'… it was a very clever move on his part to call us that

I think Herralde actually had Johan Cruyff’s Barça 'Dream Team' in mind. That team was also called that—influenced by the Olympic basketball team, of course—and Herralde is a massive Barça fan.

— The photo shows some of the finest writers of my generation.

But there are no women in it. In contrast, on the original Granta list of twenty authors from 1983, six were women.

— You'll have to ask Herralde why there aren't any women on his list. The 1983 Granta promotion, 'The Best of Young British Novelists,' was actually a very diverse group. There were three Black and Asian writers—Salman Rushdie, Shiva Naipaul, and Buchi Emecheta—and Emecheta was one of the six women, along with Pat Barker, Ursula Bentley, Maggie Gee, Lisa St Aubin de Terán, and Rose Tremain. In any case, it's true that people have tended to talk about Martin, Ian, Ishiguro, and me as a group… but we were never a group with a shared literary approach; we were simply a social group. If I think about my books and Ian's novels, for instance, they are completely different. I couldn't have written Saturday, and he couldn't have written Flaubert's Parrot. And, of course, one of us has won the Nobel Prize: Kazuo Ishiguro.

This makes me think: just last week, I read a review of your latest book in The Telegraph. The headline read: 'Barnes is a good novelist, but not one of the greats'.

— Oh, I didn't see it; thank you so much for telling me.

I'm sorry. Critics... you know what they're like.

— Critics can’t predict the future. Besides, you only become a 'great novelist' once you're dead. It’s pointless to worry about prestige; you just have to try to write the best books you can. And I can’t think of a single novelist in this country who hasn't seen a headline similar to the one you mentioned. It’s simply part of the business in this territory. Besides, you always get the worst reviews in your own country—European critics are far more generous than British ones.

Why?

— By the time a book reaches another country, it has already been filtered, weeding out the lesser ones. Foreign publishers only take on books they consider truly excellent, whereas British publishers release a great many terrible books that somehow still sell. I remember a conversation with Anita Brookner many years ago. She had just returned from Paris, and I said to her, 'It’s good to go to Europe because, somehow, they take you more seriously there.' And she replied, 'Yes, they are interested.' A classic Anita Brookner understatement.

Would you like to add anything else?

— Yes: Who will win la Liga?

I hope Barça.

— But they're only one point ahead of Madrid, right?