The Sea by John Banville
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"What a little vessel of sadness we are, sailing in this muffled silence through the autumn dark."

"The past beats inside me like a second heart."

John Banville's The Sea (2005) offered me one of the most remarkable literary experiences of my life. After just a few pages I knew I was reading a magnificent novel. By mid-book I was absolutely certain this was one of the very best books I had ever read. And I kept reading, very slowly, savoring the masterful prose. And then... Then the ending came, the last few pages where the author suddenly decided to explain things, and some of the extraordinary charm of the novel instantaneously dissipated. Real life turned into a story; human truth turned into a plot. What a disappointing moment!

The Sea is a masterpiece fully deserving its Man Booker Prize; I will naturally round the rating up to five stars, but - to me - it is no longer a novel unique in its greatness, which it had been until the ending. In this inept but heartfelt review I am trying to convey my early feelings about the novel before the very ending broke the spell.

There is no linearity in life; life is not a story. Things in life occur for no reason and for no reason they do not occur either. Life is a jumbled collage of events that had once happened. The present is the accumulation of the past, but they also exist concurrently and one flows through the cracks of the other:

"[...] it all has begun to run together, past and possible future and impossible present."

Max Morden, a retired art historian, is an 11-year-old boy, playing on the beach with the Grace family, his wife Anna is dead, the boy falls in love with Mrs. Grace while Anna is dying "leaning sideways from the hospital bed, vomiting on to the floor," and the boy falls out of love with Mrs. Grace during an erotic experience at the beach, Anna is getting the death sentence from the doctor and the magical moment with Mrs. Grace - the culmination of the boy's love - begins to happen

"[...] in that Edenic moment at what was suddenly the centre of the world [...] and blonde Mrs. Grace offering me an apple [...]"

But the magic of the moment is broken by a hurricane of events. And it all begins and ends with the sea, the great infinity that created us and then absorbs us.

So deeply human the novel is that - although nothing even remotely similar ever happened to me - I feel all these events belong to me as they belong to all people. I feel that my past and everybody else's past merge with Max Morden's past in the universal human past. The truth of the elderly art historian, a grieving widower who is the 11-year-old boy in love with a mature woman is my truth and the truth of all people.

There is so much more in the novel: there is Claire, Max's "ungainly, unpretty daughter," and there are unforgettable Miss Vavasour and the Colonel. The boy's disgust at the mingling of God and sex, and a fragment seemingly taken straight out of another of my favorite authors, Cees Nooteboom:

"We carry the dead with us only until we die too, and then it is we who are borne along for a little while [...]"

There also is the absolutely stunning passage about Max becoming aware of the dichotomy between himself and that what is not-himself:

"In her I had my first experience of the absolute otherness of other people. [...] the world was first manifest for me as an objective entity.

Luminous, breathtaking prose.

Four-and-three-quarter stars.

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