I would never have thought that a novel about a fussy septuagenarian contemplating his mortality in a cold and damp suburban London would be my cup of tea. However, an article by Greg Sheridan in The Australian , discussing novels about old age, piqued my interest.Paul Sturgis is 72, retired, lives alone in his London flat and has neither family nor intimate friendships. He occupies his time with routine, travel, cultural pursuits and the “life of the mind”, citing Proust, Henry James and Stendhal as bulwarks against meaningless solitude. But he ponders his mortality and fears a lonely future, imagining who will be there for him when he nears the end.
Into this solitary, yet comfortable, existence enter two women who shake up his world – Vicky, a 50-something divorcee he meets while holidaying in Venice, and Sarah, an old flame he once had a love affair with, now recently widowed. Vicky forthrightly insinuates herself into his life, though her unpredictability irks Paul's’ lifelong sense of routine and propriety, while Sarah, a fragile shadow of the vivacious and demanding lover he once knew, seems to promise a kind of domestic companionship an aging man might appreciate as he advances in years.
What follows are a series of dinner dates, visits and favours that Paul undertakes for the women as he considers making changes in his life. While he values companionship and conversation, a more permanent arrangement with either woman presents a dilemma for Sturgis, as his life hitherto has been one of control and independence. Previous relationships had ended unsatisfactorily, while his parents own loveless marriage, a life of endurance rather than excitement, still haunts him. His decision comes on the final page.
I was surprised at how much I enjoyed this. It is a fine psychological novel that addresses the universal question of "How is one to live?", particularly how to live with others. In Paul Sturgis's case, his fastidiousness and wariness of intimacy do him no favours, and indeed will annoy many readers, as it did me. Nonetheless, Brookner’s writing illustrates that, regardless of the quantity of life left to live, the importance of the question does not diminish. As Sturgis himself realises, “a crowded past [does] little to relieve an empty present.” Mere endurance is no solution. Memories will not suffice.
I found it refreshing to read literature that confronts the reader with awkward aspects of the human condition. The value of this book lies in how it makes you think of other life experiences, rather than how fast it makes you turn the pages. All of us must wonder at times how we will be living out our later years, and with whom. On the strength of this book, I would consider reading Brookner’s Hotel du Lac, which won the Booker prize.
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