Pulse

Nearly all of the characters in Pulse, Julian Barnes' new collection of short stories, are in the second half of their lives; past their peak and looking back to see if they ever actually had one. The stories that make up the first part are largely grim tales of suspicious, bickering couples and friends harboring deep emotional wounds. One complains that life has become "mostly about the gradual loss of pleasure," while another describes it as "managed decline." In story after story, the world as they know it deteriorates around them while they deteriorate in turn. Between these stories are interludes, dialogue-driven scenes of a group of friends who meet a few times a year to outsmart each other in topical and self-congratulatory conversations. The stories of the second part all deal in one way or another with the senses—the primary means through which physical pleasure is experienced—only, the characters here are each in some way stymied: a mute portrait painter, a blind musician, a man who loses his sense of smell. Barnes' impressive facility as a writer ensures that every story is told with grace, artistry, and economy yet, despite a few solid pieces, Pulse as a whole feels disappointingly slight. Its characters, despite the rare outburst or impulsive gesture, are too mild for their own good. Perhaps this is Barnes' point: no one is happy but they're still going, still holding a pulse while waiting anxiously for its inevitable end.