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My first Auster. Read at the urging of McCaffery's 100.
Very pleased with it. Not blown out of the water nor struck by any particularly new paths for fiction. But nonetheless time well spent.
Will welcome more Auster in the future of course but don't anticipate myself getting carried away and immersed as I often enough do.
I'll describe briefly a reflection. Reading this I had the experience of not anticipating where the next sentence was headed so my eyes and attention remained where they should, word to word ; sentence to sentence. This in stark contrast to my recent experience skim=reading a 400 page novel in a few hours wherein I seemed to see coming exactly what was what appeared next, the next word the next sentence not needing to be read because the previous words and sentences predicted them completely. Also in contrast in the other direction, that experience of reading I deeply treasure and seek out, that experience of utter bafflement, not only not anticipating the next sentence, the next word, but not even anticipating what I've already read, not fully comprehending what the hell is going on and where we're headed and where we've been. Sentences which can be read and reread and which not only don't become easily interpreted into banalities but which on each revisit would or do deepen the bafflement. The art of fiction is not 'complete and full understanding, full grasping and mastering' but rather that experience of deepening the estrangement, befuddlement. This one experiences in texts like Finnegans Wake and Prae and Women & Men and Larva. This is what I want out of fiction, language which moves with the depth and complexity and infinity of a Bach or Beethoven or Wagner.
Auster is a good read.
Very pleased with it. Not blown out of the water nor struck by any particularly new paths for fiction. But nonetheless time well spent.
Will welcome more Auster in the future of course but don't anticipate myself getting carried away and immersed as I often enough do.
I'll describe briefly a reflection. Reading this I had the experience of not anticipating where the next sentence was headed so my eyes and attention remained where they should, word to word ; sentence to sentence. This in stark contrast to my recent experience skim=reading a 400 page novel in a few hours wherein I seemed to see coming exactly what was what appeared next, the next word the next sentence not needing to be read because the previous words and sentences predicted them completely. Also in contrast in the other direction, that experience of reading I deeply treasure and seek out, that experience of utter bafflement, not only not anticipating the next sentence, the next word, but not even anticipating what I've already read, not fully comprehending what the hell is going on and where we're headed and where we've been. Sentences which can be read and reread and which not only don't become easily interpreted into banalities but which on each revisit would or do deepen the bafflement. The art of fiction is not 'complete and full understanding, full grasping and mastering' but rather that experience of deepening the estrangement, befuddlement. This one experiences in texts like Finnegans Wake and Prae and Women & Men and Larva. This is what I want out of fiction, language which moves with the depth and complexity and infinity of a Bach or Beethoven or Wagner.
Auster is a good read.