Just goes to show how good of a writer Paul Auster is. Writers like him and Cormac McCarthy get away with writing stories that I can't imagine writing, let alone understanding how to keep the momentum. The protagonist, Daniel Quinn (mistaken for Paul Auster), even in his most unbelievable moments, stays believable. The metafictional aspect of this book combined with the mystery novel nature was an intriguing cerebral mind fuck that kept me reading frantically. Not a book for plot cravers (not at least in the traditional plot...big action kind of way).

Θαρρείς ένας κόσμος γυάλινος είναι διάφανος
Τον διαπερνά κάθε βλέμμα
Τίποτα δε μένει αθέατο.
Κι όμως, κάποιες φορές παίζει παιχνίδια το φως που πέφτει πάνω στο τζάμι
Πλέκει ιστορίες, χαράζει δρόμους
Και μένεις μετέωρος ψάχνοντας την σωστή πορεία και το νόημα όσων παίρνουν μορφή απ' τις αντανακλάσεις.

Πρώτη μου επαφή με τον συγγραφέα και σίγουρα όχι τελευταία.

City of Glass was not what I expected. Which is not a bad thing.

I expected a well-crafted, pulpy detective fiction, perhaps borrowing liberally from Hammett, Chandler, and maybe Leonard. And it was to be fraught with New York-ish details and ambiance. I expected it to more or less follow the expectable twists, turns, and general direction of the genre I believed it to take part in.

What I got was something different. Not entirely so, of course. But different enough for me to not quite realize what I had in hand until it was all quite finished.

The surprising ride Paul Auster delivered covers a range of literary and critical topics. He is never didactic in his treatments, always leaving things unspelled, with prepositions, thoughts, and motivations all dangling with great liberty. And in some cases, he is subtle enough that one doesn't even recognize what has been done until later, under reflection.

There were times when I thought I was going to love City of Glass (especially in the introduction of his quadpartite character and in his exploration of the most famous ziggurat of all history). There were times when my love was diminished (especially in his conversation with his Peter the Younger). And then there was the rest of the time, when I was less concerned with what was going on narratively and more concerned with what Auster was trying to do on a literary level.

Generally, I'd say being taken out of the story in order to consider the work of the story a flaw. In Auster's case here, I think it works well with what he's doing and arises naturally out of the questions he asks of his reader through the narrative chase. At the end of his experiment, I feel a mixture: I am both whelmed and overwhelmed. And perhaps in some smallish ways, even underwhelmed. I'm not entirely certain that Auster succeeds wholly in his goal, but that just may be because I'm expecting greatness and am only convinced I have been delivered goodness.

But hey, goodness ain't half bad. It's probably not even a fifth.
________________________

[huh. my memory must be going. I had been chastising myself for not yet reviewing City of Glass so I finally wrote a review and came here to load it up and found I had already reviewed the book. so I am now appending my second review. maybe it will reveal something interesting about the book, but more likely it will reveal more about me.]
________________________

I've been putting off reviewing City of Glass for a few weeks now. I wanted time to digest it and see if I could do a better job piecing it all together, but honestly, I just haven't taken the time. I've read two novels and a pile of graphic novels since then, so first impression is going to have to do for this one.

The short answer: I liked it.

The longer answer: I liked it, but have some reservations, but also think there's more to it than my reservations necessarily allow. Auster eschews the conventions of the genre and offers something up that is quite different from what one might expect from detective fiction. Or at least what I expected. I suppose that in a way built of abstraction and faery tales, Auster's novel here bears some comparison to Eco's The Name of the Rose, subjecting genre to literary and (in Auster's case) metafictional concerns.

From the start, Auster's protagonist takes the reader into unexpected (though entirely welcome) narrative territory as he introduces his four overlapping identities. Then the case appears and is mostly interesting due its colossal improbability. Then a tangential (though entirely relevant) excursion into historical theology, blending the established mythos with Austerian. For my money, the chapters dealing with the earthly paradise and the ziggurat of tongues (also big features in Eco's work) are the most luscious and exciting chapters of the book—and certainly the most surprising to be found in a work of the detective genre.

At the end of the day, I don't know what to make of City of Glass. I certainly enjoyed it. I thought it had some awesome stuff going on in it. I found the finale intriguing and unexpected. I also couldn't quite grasp how the parts fit with the whole. With more time to consider and the possibility of subsequent readings, I'm sure much of the dissonance would be ironed out like the wrinkles in one's brain. But for now, I'm left both satisfied that I read something worthwhile and unsatisfied that it wasn't worth more to me as a reader.

I don’t know why or how, because it’s absurd, but this story gripped me from beginning to end.

I usually try to avoid using expletives on social media but this book was…

...Kafkaesque.

(4/5)

City of Glass is the first installment of a 3 novel trilogy written by Paul Auster. Its basically a mystery à la hard-boiled noir fiction popular during the 50s. It tells the story of a detective fiction writer who embarks on a complicated case which involve a variety of odd characters. This adventure would release the protagonist of his daunting loneliness after the death of his wife and son, and would entail some passionate discussions about literature and theology.

This book was extremely enjoyable. The prose is simply superb and seems to compliment the plot very well. I really enjoyed the description the author gave to either characters or places like this one for example:
"His hair was white, and it lay on his head uncombed, sticking up here and there in tufts. He was tall, thin, without question past sixty, somewhat stooped. Inappropriately for the season, he wore a long brown overcoat that had gone to seed, and he shuffled slightly as he walked. The expression on his face seemed placid, midway between a daze and thoughtfulness. He did not look at the things around him, nor did they seem to interest him. He had one piece of luggage, a once beautiful but now battered leather suitcase with a strap around it"

Another admirable quality about this book is the personality of the protagonist. A methodical man who seems at once indifferent to life but one who is extremely concerned about his purpose in it. His internal monologues are enchanting. This one in particular when he pondered upon "fate":

"Was “fate” really the word he wanted to use? It seemed like such a ponderous and old-fashioned choice. And yet, as he probed more deeply into it, he discovered that was precisely what he meant to say. Or, if not precisely, it came closer than any other term he could think of. Fate in the sense of what was, of what happened to be. It was something like the word “it” in the phrase “it is raining” or “it is night.” What that “it” referred to Quinn had never known. A generalized condition of things as they were, perhaps; the state of is-ness that was the ground on which the happenings of the world took place."


In the end I didn't think I completely absorbed the full meaning of this book. There are many ideas which the author tried to convey but either failed to or it was for lack of contemplation on my part. Either way, it remains an interesting take on the classic noir mystery genre and a story which requires a second careful read, this time in hopes of absorbing its full content.

“En su sueño, que más tarde olvidó, se encontró en el vertedero de su infancia, rebuscando en una montaña de basura.”

“— La mayoría de la gente no presta atención a esas cosas. Creen que las palabras son como piedras, como grandes objetos inamovibles, sin vida, como mónadas que nunca cambian.
— Las piedras cambian. El viento y el agua pueden desgastarlas. Pueden emocionarse.”

“— Mi trabajo es muy sencillo. He venido a Nueva York porque es el más desolado de los lugares, el más abyecto. La decrepitud está en todas partes, el desordene es universal. Basta con abrir los ojos para verlo. La gente rota, las caras rotas, los pensamientos rotos. Toda la ciudad es un montón de basura. Se adapta admirablemente a mi propósito. Encuentro en las calles una fuente incesante de material, un almacén inagotable de cosas destrozadas.”

He tenido una grata experiencia con esta lectura. Puede que el hecho de no haber leído la sinopsis ayudase, aunque el escritor es de sobra conocido. Una gran primera parte de una trilogía de sobra conocida para mucha gente, pero no para mí. Un juego literario de identidades falsas, contrapuestas, borradas, difuminadas, o incluso poco claras y que no tienen un fin concreto. Una ciudad de Nueva York tratada no solo como escenario, sino también como un personaje más, como si la ciudad respondiese a los caprichos de la trama. Un final intencionadamente absurdo, lo absurdo, el destino y de la vida. Esta falta de sentido es lo que irónicamente concede el sentido al libro. No sabría explicarlo muy bien, porque se tiene que leer para entender a lo que me quiero referir. Trata también de la vida y de la muerte, también desde una perspectiva absurda y carente de sentido, como suele ser la misma realidad. Una novela filosófica de atmosfera inquietantemente absurda, de ejecución sencilla pero con un trasfondo inmenso. Historias encerradas en un mismo marco. Policiaca, triste, de misterio, metaliteratura, filosofía, suspense, humor, incluso con rasgos cervantinos. Sobre esto último, en la novela se desarrolla un interesante debate sobre la identidad de una obra, su procedencia y la forma en la que puede pertenecer, o no, al escritor. Voy a continuar no solo con Paul Auster,sino también con su trilogía de Nueva York, la primera aparte me ha parecido inquietantemente ingeniosa. Queda seguir con Fantasmas ¿A qué fantasmas se referirá Paul Auster con su título?

Intentaré no dejar tantas reseñas pendientes, pero entre pitos y flautas se habían acumulado demasiadas reseñas, como siempre, disfruto mucho compartiendo mis opiniones por aquí.

One of the weirdest books I've read so far. Anyway I completed with a hope of enlightenment upto the last but Alas!!!

An author of mysteries is drawn into an investigation accidentally and the confusion it ends him up in (and me) is the story in a nutshell. There was a lot of wordplay and nameplay all of which were beyond me. Guess it takes a more intellectual mind than mine to decipher it...

La expectativa al comienzo de la novela es diferente. Al igual al terminarla tuve sentimientos encontrados, pero sin duda es brillante. Creo que necesito tiempo para asimilarla, pero la veo como una tragedia en la cual la se decide caer.

4.5 stars.

It started with a wrong number....
And this kept me hooked throughout.
It is very difficult to describe this novel as an ordinary reader without much knowledge of the factorums of literature. But I will try

It read like a nightmare - Not the scary kind, but the thrilling indecisive kind, where one loses name, identity, purpose and surrounding in the blink of an eye.

William Wilson is a defunct poet who has now assumes the persona of Daniel Quinn, the detective story writer, creator of a popular detective, Henry Dark.
He picks up a call which was originally for Paul Auster, a real detective and decides to assume his persona and investigate a man who has supposedly imprisoned and abused his young son, suffered a sentence when found out and is now returning to harm the now adult, married son, who has lost control of his faculties. His wife and nurse, Virginia is the one who has sought help.

Starting as straight forward investigation, soon we are lost in a world of Doppelganger and something almost resembling magical realism.

I was thoroughly immersed in this mesmerising world and didn't want to come out.

This book is complete crap. It's one of those books where you read the critic's reviews and you think- what in God's name are they talking about?? Kafka? Post modern ? Are they crazy?? This book first of all- was boring.
I skipped 10 pages at a time.Second of all-it was boring. Third of all - you get it. BORING.
More than anything-this book lets you see the pretentiousness of New York critics. Why is that now? Because the critics are so pompous and so full of hot air- using all these high brow terms -like POST MODERN?? EXISTENTIAL??GIMME A BREAK.
Let us be clear: Nothing in this book makes sense. Not a thing.
It's all half baked characters and ridiculous plots and boring descriptions
I've read several of Paul Auster's books now and 2 of them are good.But forgive me I wouldn't write a good review for this guy if you paid me. You want to know why? Look at his photo.
He looks "SO INTENSE" and he looks so PROFOUND and he looks SO DEEP- like I want to puke.
Nope. As far as I can see this book is more an expose of the critics' pretentious gobbley gook than it is of anything else. This book was horse shit.
None of it made any sense, none of it was believable and what the f. does Kafka have to do with it? Absolutely nothing.
Kafka could write. I have no idea what this guy- Paul Auster is doing.but lemme tell you- it ain't writing. It's superficial goobley gook. Don't read it. It stinks. JM

A very intriguing exploration of the power of language to make (and unmake) the borders of our existence and the reality we experience.

The main character, Quinn, is a writer of detective stories. One day, he decides to take on a serious detective job. His decision to do so, prompted by a mere phone call, seemingly represents the enthralling power of suggestion.

Quinn's willing engagement with the caller, and the events that unfold from there, convey a heavily slanted view of language-experience praxis. Quinn becomes helplessly swept up in the lives of his interlocutors. He is held in thrall to the extent that he becomes a blank vehicle for their tragedies and mysterious lives.

Why is this so? Auster has chosen a detective writer as a main character, whose sole means of support - as far as the reader can determine - comes from royalties from the sale of mystery books. Quinn begins the story with a knowledge of the chase, but no experience as a real detective. His real-life case, far from being an extreme case of text-to-self transference, seems to illustrate a larger truth about a dark power inherent in language, wherein word-reality has a supernatural ability to leap over cognitive barriers to create and destroy human experience.

If you're still reading this review, you may wonder if the story is really just about a guy who has a pretty straightforward psychotic break. This is entirely possible but the rest of the story makes it seem unlikely.

Context clues indicate that the story really is an allegory, representing the fragility of the human condition as portrayed in the downfall and disappearance of the book's characters. Language, in this case, is the agent of the Fall. Auster explicitly refers to the biblical Tower of Babel, mirroring the anomic results of that story with Quinn's own descent into confusion.

The characters grope with the unknown limits of their lives, including their identity, their survival, and the peace of mind they all struggle to obtain.

How does this play out in the story? The lightning rod of language is given a central agent, an insane professor (now a harmless codger) whose release from prison triggers Quinn's descent. He is summoned to protect the professor's victimized son, at which time he begins to unravel a sordid tale that eventually proves to be a gigantic McGuffin.

Behold the facts: that the professor, in his heyday, attempted to abolish language and raise his son in isolation from it. This child abuse, and the linguistic hubris from which it was born, creates a legacy of suffering which ultimately destroys all it touches. Consider also that each character affected by the professor seems afflicted by a curse: they wind up broke, insane, dead, or missing. Even the main character is powerless to stop his own descent into indigence as he continues his quixotic pursuit of the word-abolisher.

Yet what does the Professor actually do? He roams Manhattan, collecting junk, muttering nonsense.

Meanwhile, the professor's son and his wife disappear, leaving a trail of bounced checks. But Quinn is unaware or unwilling to explore these new developments. Instead he lays in wait, hoping to catch the professor before he can do any harm.

Again, unbeknownst to him, the professor commits suicide, leaving the "detective" in the absurd position of waiting for a dead man, sleeping in a dumpster and losing everything.

Finally, Quinn gives up. He returns to his apartment, his quarry lost, his paychecks bounced, and finds that a new tenant has taken his place. In search of some redemption - anything at all - he returns to the professor's son's empty apartment. His job is now meaningless, his role irrelevant. The professor and his son left him to his own vacuity, their hysterics all but sick jokes at Quinn's expense.

Now, the doors to the empty place are unlocked, seemingly in silent assent to Quinn's condition and fate. He removes his clothes and begins scribbling inane phrases in his notebook. Food appears before him as he writes, but soon he disappears. Later, we are led to understand, his notebooks serve to inform the narrator of the above events.

Now Auster's vision becomes clear. We may see a significant pattern in the impotence of the characters to prevent their demise, articulated here through an assent to participate in language games. In this absurd menage-a-trois, Auster seems to point to an innate human desire - an instinct - to interpret reality on a level of verbal/linguistic constructions, regardless of the larger implications of this praxis. Each character accepts their tragedy without question, first acceding the roles of "detective," "madman," and "victim," then "bum," "corpse," and "missing person." As this fatal flaw unravels the protagonist's author-life, the reader recalls the mysterious deaths described by Auster at the beginning of the story. In a prior life, Quinn had a family, which also disappeared. Between the end of this life and the beginning of "City," the main character developed a hunger: for companionship, for another life, for a new role to play.

Yet his hunger impelled him toward another end altogether, an inner death in the form of an overreaching projection of words on reality, the absurd "City of Glass." In becoming his own detective character, Quinn paid his final homage to the power of words, a mistake for which he paid with his home, his identity, and his mind. Babel, indeed.