i've never read a book by a male author, featuring a male narrator, that was so introspective.
it opens with a group of high school chums discussing of history and it's purpose (loved this line: isn't the whole business of ascribing blame a kind of cop-out? we want to blame an individual so that everyone else is exculpated. or we blame a historical process as a way of exonerating individuals ) and then narrows when the main character, retired now, tries to deconstruct his own memories about a specific time.

in many ways it was like a philosophical treaty. can we re-remember events of our past and be forgiven? why do we spend so much time looking forward to our futures, and never think of how, once there, we'll look back on now? when new memories of old events surface, can we trust their authenticity? (and why do those neurons suddenly unblock, refire and come back to life?) as we age, and the witnesses to our past fall away (and with them, corroboration) can we trust our memories?

everything about the narrator is fully believable - right down to his obsession with an old girlfriend, his need to re-explain himself to his ex-wife, and his dissection of each detail in an email or encounter. i easily, and often, forgot he was an author's character, and not a true person confessing his frailties. in this way, he was very comforting to read.