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.

عاشقش شدم
بخونید بعد برید تحلیلاشو بخونید
ولش نکنید فقط.چون داستانش پست مدرنه و لایه هایی داره که باید با تمرکز بخونید و تحلیل بشه.
برام خلاصه کتاب ، تو جمع بندی کتاب استیلمن بود.درباره امریکا و بهشت موعود و بابل.دوبار خوندمش بازم میخونم.

(عالم الكتب تدب فيه الحياة , ويغلي بالاحتمالات و الأسرار والمتناقضات , ولمّا كان أي شئ يقال أو يُرى , وحتى أهون الأشياء و أقلها شأنًا , يمكن أن تكون له صلة ��ختام القصة , فإنه ما من شئ يجب تجاهله )

يبدو يا جماعة إن الأدب الأمريكي أفضل مما نتوقع (رغم تجاربي القليلة معه , فأنا لا أذكر الاطلاع على كثير من الأدب الأمريكي باستثناء أدب إدجا آلان بو و مجموعة قصصية لهيمنجواي , و رواية يتيمة لفيليب روث ) فالأدب الأمريكي من الآداب التي أشعر تجاهها بالذنب .

وها هي تجربة جديدة مع هذا الأدب , تجربة بطلها بول أوستر , وهي عبارة عن ثلاثية روائية (قصيرة) , هي ثلاثية نيويورك .

الرواية أمريكية الطابع بامتياز , تشعر وأنت تقرأها بأنك تتابع فيلم أمريكي تقليدي وتأكل طعام أمريكي وما إلى ذلك , ورغم كل ذلك فهي رواية جيدة .

العمل مفعم بالتفاصيل والتي قد تبدو مملة (ولكني من عشاق تفاصيل الروايات ) ففيها تندمج بكلك مع كل ما يكتبه الكاتب ويخطه قلمه , التفاصيل التي تنقلك لتعيش في قلب المجتمع الأمريكي وترسم بخيالك الخاص الأحداث التي تحدث .

هي رواية (جريمة ) ولكن ليست كأي رواية ولا كأي جريمة , وقد يكون من التجاوز لنا أن نصفها بالجريمة فالأقرب كما ورد في مقدمة المترجم , رواية تحري .

رواية صاخبة (كعادة الأمريكان العتيدة) , صاخبة في الأحداث والأفكار المطروحة خلالها , صاخبة في الأشخاص حتى ولو اتسموا بالهدوء , رواية يصعب عليك سرد أحداثها بل حتى التحدث عنها , فالأحداث مكثفة بصورة جيدة ومتماسكة للغاية .

هي ثلاثية روائية , قد تبدو للوهلة الأولى كل جزء منها بمعز عن الآخر , ولكن بمجرد تتابع قراءتك لها , ستجدها متماسكة يشد بعضها البعض .

الترجمة جيدة من وجهة نظري ومقدمة المترجم كانت أكثر من ممتازة .

الأشخاص : في غاية الشفافية والوضوح (الظاهري) ولكنهم كجبل الجليد لا يظهر منه إلا جزء بسيط , فتتابع المفاجآت وتكتشف تحت تلك الأشخاص الظاهرة نماذج إنسانية معقدة للغاية .
الأحداث : متتابعة سريعة كثيفة صاخبة , تحتاج منك تركيز وسعة دراية وحس بديهي واسع لتدرك تتابعها .

الكاتب : إنسان فذ بكل ما تحمله الكلمة , كل جملة قالها , وكل اسم شخصية ذكره , له دلالته المهمة للغاية .
في المجمل : عمل جيد وممتع وغريب .

Well, this is a bit of a mystery, in more ways than one.

New York Trilogy is three novellas that are all connected. I wouldn't call them a series because you could probably read them in any order you want.

They are detective stories set in NYC and even though I'm left with more than a little confusion at the end, I enjoyed the time I spent in them. Paul Auster is a great writer and his words wash over you, hypnotic in a way.

I didn't care for the second and shortest novella Ghosts... all the characters' names were colors and it rankled me (it doesn't take much to get my irritation levels up).

However, the other two I was totally immersed in. They more than make up for my dissatisfaction of Ghosts.

This is my least favourite Auster, but I still recommend it to his fans. (If you haven't yet read him, I wouldn't suggest starting with this one.). 3.77 stars rounded up.

[Τα παλιά τα χρόνια στο somuchreading είχαμε τη δική μας Λέσχη Ανάγνωσης. Αυτό ήταν ένα από τα βιβλία που διαβάσαμε, αντιγράφω τα σχόλια που είχα κάνει στο somuchreading.com, αιωνία του η μνήμη]

λοιπόν, δεν είμαι σίγουρος τι να γράψω για το βιβλίο. βλέπω στους περισσότερους από εσάς δεν άρεσε και καταλαβαίνω γιατί. είναι τόσο μεγάλο το κόλλημά μας με την “πλοκή” που οποιοδήποτε έργο της λογοτεχνίας ή του κινηματογράφου δε χωράει στο στενό πλαίσιο του “αρχή-μέση-τέλος” και μοιάζει να υπηρετεί μόνο τους κανόνες του δικού του σουρεαλισμού, συνηθίζουμε να το πετάμε στην άκρη

ο Ώστερ κάνει κάτι φανταστικό εδώ: μιλάει για τον τρόπο που λέμε ιστορίες μέσα από μια απολύτως ωμή και προσωπική ιστοριογραφία. οι λέξεις του είναι πραγματικά ΟΙ ΛΕΞΕΙΣ ΤΟΥ, χωρίς κανένα φίλτρο συγγραφικής μανιέρας και ακολουθίας. και πως το πετυχαίνει αυτό; τηρώντας φαινομενικά όλες αυτές ακριβώς τις συγγραφικές μανιέρες και ακολουθίες τις οποίες έχει πλήρως αποτινάξει από πάνω του

όλοι οι χαρακτήρες του είναι ο συγγραφέας κι όλοι του οι χαρακτήρες, δηλαδή ο συγγραφέας, είναι όντα που εξελίσσονται διαρκώς, που ψάχνουν, όπως ο μπαμπάς Stillman που γυρνάει γύρω γύρω τους δρόμους της Νέας Υόρκης, ένα pattern στον κόσμο τους. το κόκκινο σημειωματάριο είναι το βαρίδιο, η συνεχής υπενθύμιση όλων να μείνουν πιστοί στους πραγματικούς εαυτούς τους, η συνεχής υπενθύμιση του ίδιου τις συγγραφέα να μείνει πιστός στις δικές του λέξεις, πιστός στον εαυτό του, πιστός στην ξεχωριστή θέση των χαρακτήρων του στους φανταστικούς, πλασμένους από τον ίδιο, κόσμους τους

το pattern φυσικά, που ψάχνουν χαρακτήρες αλλά κι όλοι μας, δεν υπάρχει, γιατί, ας σοβαρευτούμε, that’s life και το μόνο που έχουμε είναι ο εαυτός μας. κι άρα μήπως εμείς είμαστε οι χαρακτήρες του βιβλίου; μήπως εμείς γράφουμε συνέχεια σε ένα κόκκινο σημειωματάριο για να μας θυμίζει ποιοι είμαστε και ποιοι θέλουμε να είμαστε;

κι αν, ίσως, προσποιηθούμε πως είμαστε άλλοι από αυτούς που είμαστε, αν κι ο ίδιος ο συγγραφέας μπει βαθιά μέσα στο μ��αλό των ίδιων των χαρακτήρων του, μήπως κι εμείς κι αυτός δεν είμαστε πραγματικά χαμένοι;

υπάρχουν κομμάτια τα οποία είναι σίγουρα από τα καλύτερα που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ, όπως ο μονόλογος του γιου Peter Stillman και η αναφορά στον Dox Quixote [που να θυμίσω πως έχει δώσει το όνομα ετούτου του σάιτ] και θα μπορούσα να γράφω αρκετή ώρα ακόμη για το βιβλίο, δεν έχω πει τίποτα για τις αναφορές του σε βιβλία και συγγραφείς ε, αλλά ας μην το παρακάνω

εγώ του βάζω 4.5 αστεράκια. γιατί; γιατί όχι 5; γιατί βρίσκω λιγάκι πεσιμιστική την κοσμοθεωρία του συγγραφέα. όμως γενικά, δεν υπάρχει αντικειμενικότητα σε αυτά τα πράγματα, καθένας βλέπει τον εαυτό του και τους άλλους με διαφορετικό μάτι. απλά, να, σε σχέση με μένα λέω, που βλέπω την πραγματικότητα κάπως αλλιώς. ναι, pattern στις ζωές μας δεν υπάρχει αλλά αυτό είναι οκ και αυτή είναι η ομορφιά της ζωής. και καμιά φορά, το κόκκινο σημειωματάριό μας είναι ωραίο να το δανείζουμε σε άλλους

Trilogia di New York mi ha mandato in crisi durante la lettura e mi sta mandando in crisi adesso, mentre sono davanti ad uno schermo chiedendomi cosa mai potrei dire su questo libro senza risultare confusionaria. Ci provo, come sempre. Non so cosa uscirà, siete avvisati, almeno.

Partiamo dalle basi. Si intitola Trilogia di New York perché contiene tre storie, diverse per certi aspetti, ma molto simili per altri; tutte e tre le storie sono ambientate a New York, e fin qui è stato semplice.

La prima storia si intitola Città di vetro. Il protagonista è Daniel Quinn, uno scrittore di gialli che scrive sotto lo pseudonimo di William Wilson. Quinn riceverà una telefonata e in base a ciò che sente decide di fingersi qualcun altro, un detective, per risolvere il caso che gli è stato proposto.

« […] ciascuno diverso da tutti gli altri, ciascuno irriducibilmente se stesso.»

La seconda storia prende il nome di Fantasmi. Anche in questo caso ci ritroviamo in presenza di una detective-story dove però i ruoli (investigatore, committente, pedinato) e i colori (Blue, White, Black) si confondono.

La terza e ultima storia si intitola La stanza chiusa. Qui abbiamo uno scrittore che sostituisce il suo migliore amico (scomparso nel nulla), a sua volta scrittore, nella sua vita: sposa sua moglie e adotta suo figlio.

« […] l’idea che qualcuno potesse comprendere i sentimenti di un altro e immedesimarvisi così totalmente da non curarsi più dei propri. Era il primo autentico atto morale cui avessi assistito, e non mi sembrava sensato parlare di nient’altro.»

Sembrano tre storie diverse, ma sono inevitabilmente intrecciate tra loro, e non solo per le tematiche comuni. I temi centrali affrontati da Auster nelle tre storie sono molti: identità simulate e menzogne, tanto da arrivare all’annullamento della propria individualità; l’indagine poliziesca, con indizi e deduzioni, che sembra portare al colpevole, ma che in realtà, inevitabilmente, conduce ad un fallimento; senso di confusione e di smarrimento; New York come una sorta di città-labirinto; il caso che governa l’esistenza; metaletteratura, pensieri e indizi su come il linguaggio possa ingannare, una sovrapposizione tra lettura e scrittura, tra lettore e scrittore.

Sono tre storie che si ripetono e si rincorrono e non portano mai ad una fine, è come essere risucchiati in una sorta di loop. Quando si legge Trilogia di New York il lettore può sentirsi catturato, smarrito, in un perenne stato confusionario, impegnato in una costante ricerca e rincorsa dell’altro.

Paul Auster scrive il minimo indispensabile e ogni volta che sembra spiegarci qualcosa, ogni volta che sembra aiutarci nella comprensione di quello che ha scritto, capiremo che ci sta prendendo in giro, capiremo che in realtà ancora una volta sta complicando le cose e porta il lettore ad essere attivo: con questo romanzo la lettura non è affatto un’attività passiva, il lettore deve ricercare attivamente informazioni nel testo, deve prestare un’attenzione maniacale ai dettagli se vuole capire qualcosa di tutta questa storia.

Trilogia di New York è un libro a mio avviso complicato, difficile da capire, che lascia il lettore confuso e forse insoddisfatto (e un po’ scemo), ma proprio per questi motivi, a mio avviso, è una lettura estremamente affascinante.

La lettura di “Baumgartner” mi ha fatto venire voglia di rileggere “Trilogia di New York”, il mio primo romanzo di Paul Auster. Anni fa ero rimasta folgorata dal libro. Temevo che la rilettura sarebbe stata meno interessante e, invece, lo è stata ancora di più. “Trilogia di New York” è, senza ombra di dubbio, uno dei libri più geniali, cerebrali e affascinanti che abbia mai letto.
 
La trilogia è composta da tre storie apparentemente scollegate, tutte ambientate in una New York alienante, labirintica. Le storie si presentano come anti-detective stories, in cui un protagonista deve pedinare qualcuno o cercare una persona scomparsa. Essendo anti-detective stories, i casi non hanno risoluzione e i protagonisti finiscono per smarrirsi nel nulla.
Inutile dire che si tratta di romanzi altamente simbolici (come tutti i romanzi postmodernisti), il cui tema centrale è la complessità e la frammentarietà della società contemporanea - una società che non è più a misura d’uomo.
 
La conseguenza principale del vivere in tale società è la perdita della propria identità. Tutti i protagonisti delle storie hanno smarrito la propria identità e cercano di ritrovarla inseguendo altre persone; l’investigazione, quindi, è metafora della ricerca del proprio io - una ricerca impossibile, destinata al fallimento. I tre romanzi contengono livelli diversi e sempre più esasperati della perdita della propria identità.
Nel primo, il protagonista, Peter Quinn, è uno scrittore di gialli inizialmente diviso tra tre identità: quella di Quinn persona, quella di Wilson, lo pseudonimo che usa come scrittore, e quella di Work, l’investigatore protagonista dei suoi romanzi. Quando Quinn viene scambiato per un investigatore e riceve l’incarico di pedinare un certo Peter Stillman, la sua identità si frammenta ulteriormente e questo lo porta progressivamente a perdersi.
Nel secondo romanzo, il protagonista, Blue, è un investigatore diviso, inizialmente, tra le tante identità che ha dovuto assumere nel corso di anni di indagini. Quando gli viene chiesto di investigare Black, diventa talmente ossessionato dall’indagine da identificarsi completamente nell’uomo, vedendo in lui il suo doppio.
Nel terzo romanzo, il protagonista, privo di nome, non si limita a cercare un amico scomparso ma si sostituisce addirittura ad esso, pubblicando i suoi romanzi e sposando sua moglie. Qui, quindi, la perdita della propria identità raggiunge il suo apice.
 
La seconda conseguenza del vivere in una società complessa e frammentata è il fatto che le parole non sono più in grado di rappresentare appieno la realtà. Tutti e tre i romanzi contengono riferimenti al linguaggio e ai suoi limiti.
Nel primo romanzo, un personaggio di nome Peter Stillman tenta un esperimento sul figlio per appropriarsi del linguaggio originale, antecedente al peccato capitale - un esperimento fallimentare. Anni dopo, Stillman continua la ricerca cercando di inventare un nuovo linguaggio, in cui le parole cambiano a seconda delle funzioni che hanno gli oggetti a cui si riferiscono. Anche questo esperimento fallisce, spingendo l’uomo a interrompere le proprie ricerche.
Nel secondo romanzo, Blue si rende conto che le parole non sono sufficienti a descrivere in modo esaustivo ciò che osserva e ha sempre maggiore difficoltà nello stilare i report relativi all’investigazione.
Nel terzo romanzo, infine, il narratore legge il taccuino dell’amico Fanshawe sperando di capire le scelte dell’uomo, ma trova le parole incomprensibili.
In un mondo il cui il linguaggio non è più in grado di descrivere la realtà, lo scrittore perde importanza - diventando un semplice mediatore tra il mondo dei personaggi e il mondo reale - e il lettore assume, per contro, una funzione rilevante: quella di interpretare ciò che legge, attraverso gli indizi disseminati dallo scrittore. Ecco perchè “Trilogia di New York” risulta complesso ed enigmatico: sta al lettore interpretare e completare il lavoro iniziato da Paul Auster.
 
Ma “Trilogia di New York” non è solo un libro sulla società contemporanea. È anche un libro metaletterario che riflette sul potere dell’immaginazione, sul processo creativo della stesura di romanzi e sulla vita di uno scrittore.
Le storie che compongono il libro hanno un’ambientazione volutamente irreale, in quanto specchio della mente dell’autore. Tutti i protagonisti sono ossessionati dall’indagine che è stata loro affidata e si concentrano talmente su di essa da dimenticare di vivere la propria vita; questo non è altro che metafora della vita di uno scrittore, che deve immedesimarsi così tanto nelle vite dei propri personaggi da trascurare la propria. Le trame della trilogia, inoltre, presentano continui rovesciamenti di ruolo, con scrittori che diventano personaggi e viceversa. Tutto questo è metafora del rapporto che lega uno scrittore ai suoi personaggi. Un autore, infatti, non ha pieno controllo sui personaggi, in quanto il processo creativo di un romanzo spesso muta in corso d’opera. Nella trilogia ci si trova di fronte, quindi, a situazioni paradossali, in cui i personaggi seguono o sorvegliano il proprio scrittore o in cui un autore riesce a comunicare con i suoi personaggi solo attraverso una porta - simbolo della distanza incolmabile tra i due.
 
Ci sarebbe tanto altro da dire (ad esempio, sui collegamenti con “Don Chisciotte” e “Walden” e sui collegamenti con la fede e il peccato originale), ma mi fermo qui.
So bene che si tratta di un libro faticoso da leggere, che va diluito e assimilato nel tempo. Ma penso che lo sforzo vaga assolutamente la pena. Basandomi su quanto ho letto finora, Paul Auster ha scritto degli ottimi romanzi (come “4321”), dei romanzi nella media (come “Baumgartner” e “Mr. Vertigo”) e un capolavoro: “Trilogia di New York”.

I have encountered a great many reviews that start with "I don't know how to begin this review". By this claim the reviewer expresses doubt, but the expression of these doubts is the immediate solution to the reviewer's predicament, making both the doubts and the claim kind of moot. I was thinking of starting off this review the same way, given that this book leaves you wondering about everything, but thinking about that as an option makes it also dishonest, because I would know where to start with this review. Luckily I found a way around it so ta-da, here we go, smooth sailing, no over-explanation there at all!

This book is a particular kind of great. It's unique in my view, but that's not saying much because my basis for comparison is rather small, so let me elaborate.

"The New York Trilogy" is comprised of three stories. This is not surprising. It makes sense. This is also the point where the "sense" stops. That big box of "sense" you're so comfortable in, all snug and cosy and warm? This book is a bucket of cold water poured all over that adorable situation, making you jump out of the box, into a beautiful realm of wild and wondrous thoughts.

The book starts with the quirky idea of the first story's protagonist being called up by a person looking for "Paul Auster". Hmmm, where have I seen that name? Daniel Quinn, a writer, the guy who has picked up the phone, decides to pretend he is in fact Paul Auster, a private investigator. A rather cute idea which is only the beginning of the story, and of a trilogy that becomes a very intricate riddle, with questions of identity and purpose pervading it. The author, the characters, the reader are all embroiled in these stories of stake-outs, shadowing, minicious observations and carefully planned investigations and what starts out as a seemingly cute gimmick of having the author's name as part of the story turns into an adventure you yourself become part of. You as a reader become the investigator. You'll get clues, but without the guarantee you'll get all of them. You'll get answers, but you'll have to find more by yourself.


Paul Auster in bed, reading Paul Auster's novel, "The New York Trilogy", in New York City, New York. It's a book by Paul Auster, for Paul Auster, about several Paul Austers, including himself, Paul Auster, author otherwise known for rather austere writings.

This book is immensely readable: the prose employed makes this novel a page-turner, the plot is always intriguing enough to keep one on his toes (understatement of the year). But it's difficult. It's like a Rubic's cube, only without the guarantee that it's actually solvable.

To some readers, this is frustrating. To me, the beauty of this book is that I couldn't solve its mystery, despite convincing myself I have identified some parts of answers and some threads that connect everything. Paul Auster created one of literature's most beautiful riddles. It's a bit of a magic trick and any kind of reveal "given" to you would ruin it, so I'm not going to scour the Internet for solutions. What I am going to do, is try and solve it upon a re-read, but frankly I think I'll be a bit disappointed if I can.

The only reason I didn't give this five stars is because of the slight headache it gave me. This was probably a bit self-inflicted. I always want everything to fit. This book is like a puzzle box, but the pieces inside are from several different puzzles, none of them matching the picture on the box, and none of the puzzle-sets being complete. I tried stomping the pieces together, hence the headache. I'm planning to return to it and see if I can fill in the blanks somehow, this time without stomping on the pieces and without any headaches. I know I'll enjoy it all over again, but probably a bit differently, knowing what I think I know. This riddle-nature of the book is what makes it so unique: uniquely readable, uniquely challenging, uniquely re-readable, uniquely enjoyable. And very recommendable.

All that having been said, I really don't know how to finish this review.

Άνισο βιβλίο, πομπώδες και υπερφίαλο στα 2/3α του, με την τρίτη ιστορία να σώζει κάπως τα προσχήματα και διαθέτει ψήγματα συγγραφικής ποιότητας. Το περιεχόμενο παίζει πολύ με το δισυπόστατο της ανθρώπινης ύπαρξης, το εγώ και το υπερεγώ, ενώ εργαλεία όπως η ατέρμονη παρακολούθηση, η κατάθλιψη, η μανία με τον "αντίπαλο" (που δεν είναι κανείς άλλος παρά η σκιά του ίδιου ατόμου, ο διαστρεβλωμένος αντικατοπτρισμός), ο φαύλος κύκλος της φυγής και της καταδίωξης κρατούν πρωταγωνιστικό ρόλο στην αφήγηση.

Κάπου όμως αυτή η αφήγηση χάνει τον ειρμό και τον σκοπό, γίνεται κουραστική και από ασυμβίβαστη γίνεται προδιαγεγραμμένη. Το "Κλειδωμένο δωμάτιο", η τρίτη ιστορία στην οποία ο Auster γεφύρωσε τις δύο πρώτες δείχνει ότι είχε αρχικά κάποιες καλές ιδέες και χρησιμοποίησε το τέλος της προηγούμενης-αρχή της επόμενης ως ένα ενδιαφέρον ιντερμέτζο μεταξύ των πράξεων - ακόμα και αυτή όμως δεν έσωσε την μάλλον μέτρια συνολική εικόνα του βιβλίου το οποίο παρά ήταν ασαφές για το καλό του και κουράζει από πολύ νωρίς.

Mi-am propus să recitesc din romanul lui Paul Auster (3 februarie 1947 - 30 aprilie 2024) doar ceea ce subliniasem (cu pix roșu) la prima lectură din 2007. Am sfîrșit însă prin a citi toată cartea, fiindcă nu mai țineam minte mare lucru din ea, nici măcar împrejurările primei lecturi, aproape nimic.

Trilogia... e un roman artificios, în linia povestirilor lui Henry James. Un personaj pornește în căutarea altuia, al doilea se ascunde atît de bine încît nu poate fi găsit, fiindcă nu vrea decît să-l chinuie pe primul (e un pervers, așadar). Amîndoi sînt excesiv de nervoși. Primul face o obsesie, cade în alcoolism și erotomanie, ajunge în preajma nebuniei și doar un noroc îl ferește de disoluția nervilor. Dar, în realitate, se poate presupune că personajul cu adevărat nebun și cu psihicul în descompunere e al doilea. Nu știm foarte sigur (și nci nu ne-ar folosi la nimic) dacă primul nu e cumva al doilea și nici dacă al doilea nu e cumva primul. Și nu e deloc limpede nici dacă nu cumva întreaga anchetă se petrece doar în mintea unuia dintre cei doi, nu știm care, dar asta nu mai contează. Precum scrie în acest pasaj:

„Mă înşelasem. Fanshawe era exact unde eram şi eu şi fusese acolo încă de la bun început. Din momentul în care sosise scrisoarea lui, eu mă străduisem să mi-l închipui, să-l văd aşa cum ar fi putut să fie, dar mintea mea vizualiza întotdeauna un vid imens, în cel mai bun caz, reuşeam să creez o imagine destul de săracă: uşa unei camere încuiate. Asta era tot: Fanshawe se afla singur în acea cameră, condamnat la o singurătate mitică, poate în viaţă, poate respirînd, visînd la Dumnezeu ştie ce. Acea cameră, mi-am dat eu seama atunci, se afla înăuntrul craniului meu” (p.311).

Subiectul celor trei povestiri e greu de precizat. Aș spune și eu ca recenzenții la modă: e o carte cu privire la neputința principială a individului de a stabili cine este și încotro se îndreaptă. Și bineînțeles despre imposibilitatea de a găsi / de a da un sens vieții noastre:

„Toţi vrem să ni se spună poveşti, pe care le ascultăm la fel ca atunci cînd eram copii. Ne imaginăm adevărata poveste în vîrtejul cuvintelor şi pentru a face asta ne punem în locul personajelor din poveste, prefăcîndu-ne că putem să-l înţelegem pentru că ne înţelegem pe noi înşine. Asta e o amăgire. Poate că existăm pentru noi înşine, iar uneori chiar reuşim să întrezărim cine sîntem, dar la urma urmei nu putem fi niciodată siguri, şi pe măsură ce vieţile noastre merg mai departe, devenim din ce în ce mai opaci faţă de noi înşine, din ce în ce mai conştienţi de propria noastră incoerenţă” (p.264).

Nu mai trebuie să spun că am găsit digresiunile eseistice mult mai interesante decît acțiunea „polițistă”. Astfel, o ipoteză cu privire la adevăratul autor al romanului Don Quijote puteți citi la pp.104-105.

Chiar dacă Trilogia New York-ului nu mi-a plăcut, am devenit curios. Mă apuc chiar acum să citesc Cartea iluziilor.

First, a brief harangue. I can't help but noticing how often the word "pretentious" has been thrown around in the reviews for this book. What a bothersome word: pretentious. It's a lot like the word "boring," in that they both seem to fool the user into thinking that they mean something objective, when in fact they're highly subjective. Nothing is inherently boring, just as nothing is inherently pretentious. On the contrary, these words say a lot more about the speaker than they do about the thing they're supposedly describing.

What does it mean, then, when someone calls a book "pretentious"? Let's dissect it. What they really seem to be saying is this: "I didn't find meaning in this book, therefore anyone who claims to have found meaning is not telling the truth." And this boils down to the following syllogism: "I am an intelligent reader; therefore anyone who is also an intelligent reader will share my opinion of this book; anyone who doesn't share my opinion, therefore, isn't an intelligent reader." A valid inference, no doubt, but hardly sound. This is because the whole argument hinges on one unavoidable fact: that by using the word "pretentious," one is implicitly assuming that they themselves are intelligent. And everyone knows that only dumb people think they're smart.

So hate on Paul Auster all you want. Say that you found his plots predictable; say that you found his characters unsympathetic; say whatever the fuck you want. But don't call his writing—or his fans—"pretentious." Because that's just being lazy. And beyond that, it only makes you sound pretentious.

City of Glass: *****

Speaking of coincidences:

I have this loose policy that whenever I'm reading a book of fiction, I also read something non-fiction; and in this particular instance, "City of Glass" was counterbalanced by David Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, Bach.

Now, it is not my aim to create a sort of synchronicity between any two books I have on the go at any certain time. In this case, my non-fiction choice was based solely on the fact that the book was immediately available.

And yet, I was surprised by a number of similarities that arose between the two. First, both books explicitly mention the Tower of Babel (in fact, if you have a copy of the Penguin Deluxe Classics edition of the trilogy, they both even display artistic renderings of it). Both books also focus extensively on language—in particular, its relation to "reality." But perhaps most importantly, both explore the notion of systems (mathematical, artistic, etc.), as well as what it means to operate outside of said system.

For Hofstadter, this means the ability to interpret a system in a way that isn't explicitly contained within that system, which is a crucial tool for any mathematician (or more specifically, any meta-mathematician). And it's a crucial tool for Paul Auster the writer too. In "City of Glass," he creates a "strange loop" (Hofstadter's term) between the world captured by the narrative and the one inhabited by the reader, with no clear line between them: the boundaries between what's real and what's fiction are masterfully blurred.

Reading the novel, you almost begin to suspect that you were meant to be a character, that Auster probably viewed our world as identical (or at least isomorphic) to the one inhabited by Quinn, Stillman, et. al. And if that's not cool enough: by the end of the novel, Auster turns the tables again, and you finish feeling like every symbol of the story has to be reinterpreted, like the entire piece has undergone a semantic shift.

Brainy, deep, fun and highly recommended.

Ghosts: *****

Reviewing these stories without spoiling them is kind of like trying to defuse a bomb: one with a lot of colourful and potentially unnecessary trip-wires. So in order to minimize the risk, I'm going to refrain from talking about any of the specifics of "Ghosts," and instead focus on my more general impressions of the novel.

Here we are: I think it might be even better than "City of Glass." No wait, that can't be right. Because "City of Glass" was pretty fucking amazing. Really, I don't know; I was blown away by both. Indeed, it's true that harboured the fear, from the opening few pages, that the second installment of Auster's trilogy would be perhaps a little too cutesy, with the colour-names and all ("Blue, a student of Brown, has been hired by White to spy on Black..."). But I should have by then been aware that Paul Auster does everything for a reason. Or perhaps more specifically, when he does something for no reason, it's always for a good reason.

Anyways, what I'm excited for now is finding out whether or not "The Locked Room" keeps up the trend...

The Locked Room: ***** (???)

I forget exactly where, but I believe it's in one of his letters that Plato writes, "your best ideas you don't write down" (or something to that effect). What he means, I believe, is that truth has a tendency to avoid complete linguistic formalization, that it avoids ever being "captured." This concept—or a similar one—was at the core of "City of Glass." But with "The Locked Room," Auster seems to be actually writing it, as opposed to just writing about it.

This is because it's easy to see how things like the character of Fanshawe, his assorted sub-textual works, the "locked room, etc. all map onto aspects of the novel itself. And on a more general level, this serves to comment on our notions of self-hood, language and perception(s) of reality. In this way, The New York Trilogy is a philosophy book disguised as a piece of literature. And yet that's not entirely accurate, because it's hard—if not impossible—to imagine how it's contents could be conveyed in any other form than they are here.

As Auster himself admits, the story found in "The Locked Room" is merely a facet of a larger one, one that permeates the entire trilogy. With "City of Glass," we were taken to the limits of language. "The Locked Room" performs a similar feat—less obviously, but perhaps more significantly. Auster gives us facts and he gives us names. And from these pieces we construct entire characters: Fanshawe, the unnamed narrator, even a Peter Stillman. But what does this mean? Who is Fanshawe? We are made aware, for instance, of a stark disjunction between pre- and post-disappearance Fanshawe. But with what authority can these two men be said to be the same person? And is anyone ever really just one person?

Whenever you read a novel—although perhaps this one more so than most—you are engaged in a gathering and compiling facts. You are, for all intents and purposes, a detective: picking up clues, discarding others as irrelevant. And from these, you ultimately construct a cohesive narrative, a story. If you disagree with this sentiment, just think to the Peter Stillman who appears near the end of the novel. Who can help but wonder whether or not this is in fact the same Peter Stillman as was contained within the pages of "City of Glass"? For we, as readers, cannot help but straying from the text, escaping from its finite world. We draw connections, create links. Never is the text a self-contained entity. Ever.

And Auster, it appears, has a keen understanding of this. So the question he seems to be asking is, what is the relationship between fact and fiction? Between name and thing? And when you finish the novel (both "The Locked Room" and the trilogy as a whole), you come to realize that it (the book) is forcing you to ask the very same thing of itself.

Η Τριλογία της Νέας Υόρκης του Paul Auster μου άρεσε πάρα πολύ. Κυρίως βρήκα πολύ έξυπνο το τέχνασμα να χρησιμοποιεί την δομή και το εξωτερικό περίβλημα του αστυνομικού μυθιστορήματος για να απλώσει επάνω σε αυτόν τον έτοιμο καμβά το δικό του υπαρξιακό σύμπαν. Μου θύμισε λιγάκι Κάφκα κυρίως ως προς την αδυναμία των ηρώων του να σπάσουν τα δεσμά που τους επιβάλλονται.

Υπάρχει μια εξαιρετική ισορροπία ανάμεσα στην δράση και στο ξεδίπλωμα φιλοσοφικών στοχασμών που αναλύονται με την ίδια λογική μέθοδο που θα χρησιμοποιούσε κι ένας ντεντέκτιβ, μόνο που εδώ το πραγματικό μυστήριο έχει να κάνει με θέματα όπως η λειτουργία του ανθρώπινου μυαλού, η αναζήτηση της αιωνιότητας, το ζήτημα της σωτηρίας του κόσμου κα.

Επίσης για πρώτη φορά συνειδητοποίησα πόσο παλιός είναι ο Νέος Κόσμος. Ένας κόσμος που ορισμένως μοιάζει γερασμένος παρόλο που επιμένει να βιώνει μια υστερική και εντελώς παράταιρη νιότη.

Οι ήρωες στις ιστορίες του Auster σπάνε σταδιακά τους δεσμούς τους με τον κόσμο και την εποχή τους γίνονται αρχετυπικές μορφές που δεν μπορεί να τους χωρέσει καμιά διήγηση, δεν μπορεί να τους περιγράψει καμιά λέξη και στο τέλος εξαϋλωμένοι, σβήνουν, για να ανάψουν κάπου αλλού σε κάποιο απρόσιτο σε εμάς, ουράνιο στερέωμα, σαν μεταμορφωμένοι αστερισμοί.

Το διάβασα στα αγγλικά με μεγάλη ευκολία, η γραφή του είναι απλή, χωρίς γλωσσικές ακροβασίες, ρέουσα και μεστή.