Julian Barnes: "You're only a great novelist when you're dead. It's pointless to worry about prestige."

LondonJulian Barnes (Leicester, 1946) welcomes the ARA 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." An hour and a half later, as we say goodbye, we turn to the usual topic, after having talked about life and literature; death and love; football and politics: "What a cold morning, isn't it?" he remarks, helping me put on my coat. "Typical London!" I reply. "Of course, of course!" And he closes the door with a warm, endearing smile, 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 has been cordiality and intellectual and human warmth. And not only because of the fireplace that burns wood without crackling, one more element of the sanctuary's decor, along with a 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 says.

Barnes, author of seminal works of British literature of the last forty years such as Flaubert's Parrot (1984), England, England, (1998), Arthur & George (2005) and The meaning of an ending (2011; Booker Prize), among many others, has turned 80 and has just released her latest book. Latest not only because it's her newest work, which it is, but because she has announced there will be no more. She isn't laying down her weapons, however—the pen, in her case, because she first writes by hand, then types, and finally finishes the result on a computer—since she 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, with a translation by Alexandre Gombau (Farewells (in Spanish from Anagrama, translated by Jaime Zulaika).

Is it perhaps a more subtle point in the original English? Departure(s), which cannot be forgotten It's also the common word in airports for departures, for journeys. And, in this case, we mustn't lose sight of the final journey we will all make, for which Barnes also prepares through a delightful story about life's inevitable losses, which are also its treasures.. The relatively short text will be much appreciated by his fans and anyone who picks it up. Besides a love story told in two parts, forty years apart, 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 on good medical treatment, and there's 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 think, 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.

Maybe that's just life, right?

— Definitely.

The original edition of the title is somewhat ambiguous compared to the Catalan and Spanish versions. Why? Departure(s)In singular and plural? Why is he saying goodbye to life, to writing, and to his readers?

— I'm talking about the great farewell that is death, and all the other farewells we face in life: losing people, ceasing to love, ceasing to travel…

He says that Farewells This is his latest book. Are you sure you've said everything you wanted to say? How and when did you feel—or how and when did you know—that you had said it all?

— About five years ago, when I was 75, I started thinking about what was going to happen, when I would write my last book. Would it be any good? Would I die with a book half-finished? I was thinking about all these things. And then I came up with a strategy: I would write the last book while I was still writing others, and that way it would be done, I'd have it ready. A book that would be a kind of final statement. But when I finished the previous book, I went through all my notes… I have many notebooks in which I jot down many ideas. But none of them were for a book I wanted to write now. They were books I might have wanted to write five years ago, ten years ago. So I thought: well, write this one as if it were the last, and then you'll see if, while you're writing it, more ideas come to you. But it didn't happen. On the contrary, I became more and more convinced that I had already said everything I had to say, that I had already used up all my notes.

Just as you, or the character Julian Barnes in your new book, break the promise you make to the two protagonists of the central story, Stephen and Jean, never to write about them, can't you break that promise again, in this case the one you've made to your readers, and publish a new book?

— I haven't made any promises to the readers! Where have I promised anyone that I'll write books until I die?

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

— Do you know any writers who have written anything noteworthy after turning 80? And if you keep going, you might hear: "Oh, poor man, he's getting old. He has no new ideas anymore. He just writes copies of his old books..."

In Farewells I've come across previous ideas, and made connections with other books, but I still find them interesting.

— 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 also be, a declaration to life: I'm writing a book, therefore, I can't die. If you look at it that way, wouldn't you consider it?

— 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 this goes against one of the rules you mention in Flaubert's ParrotI don't remember which number it is, but it says, more or less, that you shouldn't write about other people, but rather your own stories.

— That's what I think, yes. It was just an idea.

Tell me, are you afraid of death?

— Yes, and it's normal to be afraid of death. I don't have any religious beliefs. I don't believe there's anything after death. And so, I fear and detest the very idea of ​​death. It's terrible. I know it's inevitable. But I think I feared it more when I was young. As you get older and your body starts to fail, you don't see it the same way anymore… I mean, if you die at 40, you'll be very upset because you're in your prime; but if you die at 80 or 90, it's not the same… Obviously, it's a total loss, but it's not such a great loss.

He's a supporter of euthanasia, isn't he? So, when the time comes, perhaps he would consider it?

— 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.

March with dignity.

— Yes, I am a patron of an organization called Dying with Dignity. 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 people with theological reservations. It's extraordinary that in 2026 the House of Lords will have 25 or 26 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 of prayer. That's a very good definition. Unfortunately, I'm not a Conservative, so…

The new book engages with memory, love, friendship, aging, the place of literature in our lives, death, and her own death. Which of these themes did she 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. I always write about memory, in fact. It's a mystery I certainly haven't solved, but I've written a great deal about memory.

But, precisely, in Flaubert's Parrot You wrote that "the past often behaves like a greased piglet." So, 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 only be an illusion, fiction.

— I once had a long discussion with my brother, who is a philosopher, which I incorporated into one of my books, Nothing to fearwhich dealt with family and death. And I remember him saying that, in his opinion, memory was more like imagination than a complete and faithful account of what actually happened. And 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 own relationship with the brain and the way the brain doesn't explain everything to us, because if it did, we'd go crazy. I mean, we can't… If you suddenly eat a meat pie and remember all the other meat pies you've eaten before… Freud said it was all up there [in the brain], but…

We could not live, if we remembered everything, like Borges' character in Funes, the one with the great memory.

— Exact.

We're talking about his style. The first two novels are, let's say, conventional. But from then onFlaubert's Parrot You develop a hybrid style that, incidentally, Jane, one of the central characters in, doesn't like at all. FarewellsWhen she realized that she wanted or needed to break with the style of Metroland (1980)?

— 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. And inevitably—in my case, it was like that—my first two books were conventionally structured. It was a matter of confidence. I didn't have enough 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 matter of writing about Flaubert also played a part. I knew I had to write about him at some point, but I didn't want to do a biography, or an essay, or anything like that. Nor did I want to write, so to speak, his autobiography. 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 ​​describing a kind of muddled novel, with a large amount of factual material to keep the ship stable and afloat, and then a fictional superstructure related to themes in his work and his life. And at one point, I think I wrote one of the chapters as a short story, and then I thought, "Ah, I could write more." And then it went from being a collection of short stories to becoming 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 to be explained directly, to do so in a conventional way.

No more books, but journalism. Any comments on the political state of your country, of the world? Because the last pages of Farewells They have a pessimistic tone. And it doesn't surprise me, when you see Nigel Farage's electoral prospects in the UK or what's happening in the US.

— 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 continue drilling, including in the North Sea. We had hoped that cooperation between countries could solve our problems, and that this was the only way to do it. But now… It is very disheartening to have someone in the White House who isn't very intelligent but 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 lot of things. He didn't understand them then, and he still doesn't. He hasn't learned anything, and he doesn't want to learn anything. Why should he, when he's surrounded by sycophants who refuse to tell him the truth?

Are you disappointed with British 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 is gradually dismantle all of those policies. In any case, I just hope that in the next three or four years people will see that Farage is not the solution.

The last sentence of the book says, "Never stop looking." Did it mean to tell us not to stop reading?

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

Jorge Herralde, your editor for many years and 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 internationally, outside the Anglosphere, the famous generation of Granta From 1983? I've brought him a photo of Herralde, as the team's manager, with eleven players. Curiously, Ian McEwan isn't in it.

— Well, Herralde is a charming man, a brilliant editor, and also an excellent publicist. Comparing us to the basketball team… It was a good move on his part to call us that.

I think Herralde was thinking more about the dream team From Johan Cruyff's Barça. That team was also called that, influenced by the basketball team, of course. Herralde is a big Barça fan.

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

But there are no women. Instead, on the list of Granta Of the 20 authors from 1983, six were women.

— You'll have to ask Herralde why there aren't any women on the list. Granta, from the promotion called The Best of Young British, In 1983, it was a very diverse group: there were three Black writers—Salman Rushdie, Shiva Naipaul, and Buchi Emecheta, who 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 the same literary approach; we were just a social group. Because if I think about my books and Ian's novels, I think they're completely different. I couldn't write Saturday and he couldn't write Flaubert's parrot. And one of us has won the Nobel Prize, Kazuo Ishiguro.

This makes me think that last week I read a review of his latest book in TelegraphThe 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 how they are.

— Critics can't predict the future. Besides, you're only a great novelist when you die. 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 that country who hasn't had a headline similar to the one you mentioned. It's part of the business here. Besides, you get the worst reviews in your own country. European critics are more generous than British ones.

Because?

— By the time a book reaches another country, it's already been filtered out, weeding out the lesser ones. Foreign publishers only publish books they consider truly excellent, while British publishers release a great many terrible books, and they still sell. I remember a conversation with [the novelist and historian] 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." And she replied, "Yes, they're interested in Paris." A classic Anita Brookner understatement.

He wants to add nothing more.

— Yes: Who will win the League?

I hope Barça.

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