Reading Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending, you can’t help but think about your own existence.  Things you haven’t achieved and the ones you will never do….What’s the point in having a to-do-list that has been written by others? Either you stick to it or just get creative on the way…it’s up to you.   Everybody has its own path.

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.  The Sense of an Ending. Julian Barnes.

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