I need a new shelf. Started but discarded.
This is the first Barnes I've read (and that is more or less all of them) and haven't liked. It may not be autobiographical, but it is horribly close and he just isn't interesting. He isn't, his brother isn't. Nor are his parents or grandparents. Even worse, it is wordily pompous, which I gather is why the French like him so much.
Death itself may be an interesting subject (or may not) but what isn't interesting is other people's obsessions, including Barnes' with death. It's sort of like having to sit through other people talking about their dreams when you know even your own would have been best missed, if only you had a choice in the matter.
Well, this time, I did.