I read this in a Norwegian translation when I was… 20? I remember it clearly — it was during a very hot summer, and I spent the entire sweltering and bright night (living above the Arctic circle is fun) in bed reading this book. (And I seem to remember my cat being there at least some of the time — which is a bit odd, because he used to be outside all night in the summer… but he was pretty old by then, so perhaps he was just taking it easy.) Did I finish it in one night? All done by breakfast? I’m not sure, but I think so.
Wow, I still have that edition…
Anyway, this led to an obsession with Auster that lasted for a couple of decades, and I read all of his books up until, like 2005. Many of them were really good, but none were as magical as I remember these three novels were. So it’s with some trepidation that I’m finally re-reading this (and in English this time). Was I wrong back then? Is this book as great as I remember, or was it all due to that summer night and my cat?
No, I was right. It’s fantastic!
This time around I didn’t stay up all night to read it, but I did finish it over two evenings. (The cat died thirty years ago.) It’s such an exciting book — it’s got that early 80s post-modern freshness going on. (It was written between 1981 and 1984.) Everything has meaning and everything makes sense — it’s got some of that Pynchon-like paranoia, but in a very different way. There’s connections between everything, and there’s play with identity, and of course there’s a character (or two) with the same name as the author, and all that fun stuff. The trick is that Auster makes it all feel like it matters, so every new connection comes like a punch to the stomach.
You go *ouff* while reading it and kinda lose your breath for a second.
I’ve read most of Auster’s books, and I like a lot of them, but I guess you have to say that he peaked with his first novel. Well — collection of novels; there’s three short, interconnected novels here, but the first of these is the strongest, too. But all three are wonderful.
So that was fun book to read — not only because it’s as good as it is, but because it confirms what excellent taste I had as a twenty-year-old. (Yes, I know, I’m too modest.)
Oh, and it was nice to fondle a Penguin book again. As physical objects, they’re almost perfect books. The correct cream coloured paper, the correct floppiness of the paper, and it’s set in Bodoni, I think. Books that feel good hold and to read.
The New York Trilogy (1987) by Paul Auster (buy new, buy used, 3.86 on Goodreads)