The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes
I like a book this size. It’s nice to carry, and evidently digestible on more than one occasion (I’m tempted to say philosophically self evident). This edition has blacked edges to the pages which lend it a funereal air. No wonder that the images listed in the first few lines draw a distinct response from you as a reader (or least they did from me).
Don’t imagine that my ramblings about the appearance are to gloss over a lack of content. There’s something akin to quiet power about the tale therein, and a certain inevitability too. Above all the story raises an eyebrow and looks at you quizzically. “So, did you ever…heat of the moment…when you didn’t really mean it?” It asks. How honest would we be before reading, and how honest after?