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Why did I dislike this book so much? It was a swift, digestible read; the language was clear and uncluttered (though somewhat uninspired); and Auster knows how to keep the action moving. I guess it just felt like a lazy effort. Perhaps because of the anecdotal structure - a slapped-together collection of of caricatures, backstory, tangents, and playscript - it didn't ever coalesce into something transcendent. It felt like the author was simply trying to find a home for all the orphaned sketches he'd accumulated after years of scribbling away at a borough diner. These stories might be interesting individually, but stitched together the novel joins the annals of that overly quaint (and blandly familiar) sub-sub-genre "Those Crazy Brooklynites!", full of failed intellectuals, secretly sentimental curmudgeons, flamboyant and artsy refugees from the Midwest, bitter and precocious children, etc. The final "inspiration"/"epiphany" felt trite. All in all, too schmaltzy, too phoned-in, and in its nostalgia for a bygone bohemia, disappointingly toothless.