Ed Winterton's deceitful hope is like telling a man starving to death that a 5 course meal is ready for him when in reality the food had already been devoured. I would have punched Wintertons spectacles straight back into his brain without hesitation.
Julian Barnes threads fiction and fact together like one confusing ugly sweater with colors randomly scattered throughout the fabric. He doesn't hesitate to quickly dart from introducing Flaubert's life with facts to a fictional story in which fact and fiction blend. This can be quite confusing but makes for quite an entertaining novel.
I'm not sure exactly what it is but I'm enjoying this book a lot more than Jane Eyre or Madame Bovary. Maybe because it wasn't translated,
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