,,მაშინღა მივხვდი რა გააკეთა ჩემთვის ალმამ. მკვდრეთით ისე აღმადგინა, რვა დღეც არ დასჭირვებია."

Amikor a regény főhőse könyvet ír, az máris gyanús: annyi mindent csinálhat egy főhős, miért pont azt kell csinálnia, amit feltehetően a szerző is éppen csinál, miközben őt írja?* Ám ez a főhős nem hogy közeledne a mintaszerzőhöz, vagyis a könyv borítóján szereplő Paul Austerhez: mivel Auster regényének a cselekménye lényegében a főszereplő önterapizáló írásának a tárgya, nevezetesen egy többszörös inkognitóban élő és alkotó filmművész életének hol részletes, hol hiányos, mindenesetre fordulatos felderítése köré szerveződik, valójában leginkább eltávolítja Paul Austert (bárki is legyen az) a könyvének (mármint az Auster könyvének) a többszörösen saját magára csavarodó, körkörös motívum- és szereplőrendszerétől. Nem mintha strómann lenne vagy ilyesmi, csak mintha hátralépett volna a saját maga emelte negyedik és ötödik falon keresztül, hogy hagyja a saját szereplőit a maguk sorsszerű, tragikus kifutásaira.
Amerikai történetek, történetírások, klisék és bizarr egybeesések bonyolódnak egymásra. Több könyv, több szerző, több film és alkotói életút gabalyodik egymásba. Rengeteg kétségbeesett egymásra utaltság és végső kudarc, elmúlás és újrakezdés, visszatérés, egyidejűség. A törődő érdeklődésből adódó humor, kiteljesedésétől megfosztott töredékes és tökéletlen szépség, rohanó, kutyafutta tempójában a túlírtságtól menekülő szükségszerű hiánytalansága egyszerre élvezetes és borzasztó, álomszerű és mélységesen életbevágó.
Miközben az élet és alkotás több komoly, sőt súlyos kérdését feszegeti, ez egy élvezhető és humortól sem mentes, ponyvás elemekkel eredetien bűvészkedő, megkockáztatom: szerzői szándékában is szórakoztató könyv. Klassz.

*Mégis, a fiktív főhősök körében alighanem gyakoribb tevékenység a regényírás, mint a fikciót olvasó (nem, vagy most inkább: másképpen fiktív - zárójelet jó helyre bezár!) olvasók átlagában, ami az összlakosság regényírását így is jóval meghaladja, statisztikailag.

Edebiyat profesörü David Zimmer’ın yaşadığı trajedi ile başlayan roman, Zimmer’ın yazdığı bir kitap dolayısıyla sessiz film oyuncusu Hector Mann’ın inişli çıkışlı hayatına oradan da Mann’ın senaryosunu yazıp filme aldığı Martin Frost adlı yazarın iç dünyasına yolculuğa çıkarıyor okuru.  Roman içinde sırasıyla kitap, film, hayat, film, hikâye halkaları iç içe ve katman katman açılıyor.   

Martin Frost’un İç yaşamı adlı filmdeki yazar, zihnindeki kahramanını ölümden kurtarmak için hikâyesini yakıyor. Karışık bi olay ve düşündürücü. Yanılsamalar Kitabı’nda Auster’ın meselesinin özü olsa gerek.  Hector Mann’ın tüm filmlerinin ve hayatı ile ilgili belgelerin karısı tarafından yakılması ile ilintili bir olgu. Bana Kafka’nın Açlık Sanatçısı adlı öyküsünü anımsatıyor. Aynı zamanda Salinger’ın geç dönemde yazdıklarını yayınlatmayıp yakmasını.  Sanatçı için sanatını yapmaktan yani yaratmaktan başka çare yoktur, başka türlü yaşam da mümkün değildir.  Sanatçı yaşamına devam edebilmek için yaratır. Ancak yarattıkları bir defa elinden, zihninden, ruhundan çıktıktan sonra eserini kaybedecektir. Sanatçınin yaratma yeteneği üzerinden tanrısallığına, esrlerin de bir kere yaratildiktan sonra sanatçının olmaktan çıkışına, bir nevi ölümüne atıf yapılıyor sanki.

Aşırı yorumluyor olabilirim tabii ki. Kitabı çok beğendim. Daha önce bir kaç kitabını okumuştum Auster'in. Pek aklımda kalmadılar ama.

No es la primera vez que tengo esta sensación con Auster: la obra empieza bien, crea sensación de intriga, te mantiene a lo largo de trescientas páginas y justo en las últimas veinte o treinta, pum... todo se viene abajo. Es como si Paul Auster no sepa como terminar la obra, como si no supiera hacerla redonda y la terminara con golpes repentinos (suicidio, muertes histriónicas; coletazos de un pintor cansado de estar ante el mismo cuadro día tras día). En otras obras tiene su pase, en este caso creo que la obra queda coja. Auster siempre agrada pero, como he podido comprobar, también sabe decepcionar.

This sucked. Sucked sucked sucked sucked sucked. Utterly mediocre. Shoddily written, never pretty and often not even competent (a rough third of the book consists of the narrator describing movies which don't exist). The characters are paper thin, their motivations largely nonsensical. Its got Auster's usual obsessions about identity, and writing as a form of creation, and blah blah blah, but it doesn't lead into anything meaningful. This was my third Auster book, as mentioned, and I feel confident it's going to be my last. One more exhibit that the modern critical establishment just doesn't have a goddamn idea what they're doing.

Being drawn into Paul Auster's fiction was one of the reasons my reading became more widespread. This story grabbed me from the off, and was indeed difficult to put down. Ok so he is an acquired taste, but there is just something about his writing that hooks you in and doesn't let go so easily. The story here is both captivating and strangely mysterious. It's all about digging into the past in quite an obsessive manner, just who was Hector Mann?, what happened to him?, is he still alive?, gripped by intrigue, professor David Zimmer makes it his life's goal to discover the truth, and step by step he pulls back the blanket on an enigmatic life that no body else would even bother about. Could the great silent film star have been pulling the wool over everyone's eyes all this time?, as we enter deeper and deeper into a cocktail of deceit and dissimulation, his quest for answers starts growing like a cancer. Traversing through the American mid-west and finally New Mexico, nothing could prepare Zimmer for just what is about to follow...

This could be viewed as the brother to 'The New York Trilogy', covering roughly the same sort of ground in places here, but whereas TNYT had cold complexities that either sucked you in, or drove you away, this although complex, has a warmer feel to it and by far is easier to read. Hardcore Auster fans may view this as not his best, but I was totally immersed from start to finish, even if it wasn't the ending I was crying out for.

A dazzling masterpiece of fiction!

A few of my favorite things: smart men, secret lives, cinema, facial scars, multi-layered mystery, artistic masterpieces unveiled, itchy sexual tension...I can't love this book any more. One of my favorite books ever.

აი, დადგა ეს დღეც და ოსტერს,თვალების გარდა, სიტყვებშიც ჩავაშტერდი.

ზიმერი ტრაგედიას რომ არ ემსხვერპლა, ჰექტორმა გადაარჩინა.თუმცა დევიდს წარმოდგენა არ ჰქონდა რა უბედურ ადამიანზე ფიქრობდა, რომ მისი გაცინება შეძლო. თავად ჰექტორმა ამქვეყნისკენ მოსაბრუნებლად იმ ფილმების გადაღება დაიწყო, რომლებსაც სათითაოდ თავიანთი უბედურებები ჰქონდათ, აუდიტორია ხომ ვერასდროს იხილავდა მათ. ფრიდამ კი თავისი უბედურებისაგან დახსნა ჰექტორის მიერ მოყოლილი უბედურებებით შეძლო. ძალიან ჰგავს "მარადისობის კანონს" ხომ?!!!!! მადლობა რიხტერს, ასე იდელაურად რომ უხდება ყველა უბედურ წიგნს და,ნაწილობრივ, ამის გადატანაში დამეხმარა ;**

პ.ს. ამ წიგნის წაკითხვას ვემადლიერები და ვუძღვნი სალომე ქარდავას.

Mi tengo generalmente alla larga dalla letteratura americana perché non rientra nella mia comfort zone e molto spesso racconta storie che non mi interessano. Ma come è giusto che sia, ogni tanto bisogna leggere qualcosa di diverso e Il Libro delle Illusioni è piombato nella lista dei miei libri da leggere per puro caso. Ho letto l'anno scorso il saggio sulla traduzione di Bocchiola "Mai più come ti ho visto", traduttore tra l'altro di questo romanzo di Auster, e nel suo saggio citava un passo bellissimo da "Il Libro delle illusioni", ovvero "Tradurre è un po' come spalare carbone. Lo sollevi con il badile e lo rovesci nella fornace. Ogni pezzo è una parola, ogni palata è una nuova frase e se hai la schiena abbastanza forte e la resistenza che serve a continuare per otto o dieci ore al giorno, riuscirai a tenere il fuoco acceso. Ed eccomi qui, dopo aver trovato il libro a un mercatino dell'usato per pochi euro mi sono decisa ad affrontare questo famoso autore. Un successo. Pur conoscendo in breve la trama, la storia è stata una sorpresa ad ogni pagina. Quando mi aspettavo che svoltasse in una direzione poi andava dalla parte opposta. E sempre senza mai deludermi. La storia di David Zimmer si intreccia con quella di Hector Mann grazie a un semplice barlume di vita che si sprigiona in una debole risata, una risata che è stata l'inizio di tutto. Un libro triste (David e Alma meritavano di più sigh), ma allo stesso tempo pieno di un'energia che non riesco a descrivere. Bello. Bello.

رمانی جذاب از یک نویسنده بزرگ. روایت از زبان پروفسوری نقل می شود که در حادثه ای زن و بچه هایش را از دست داده و دچار افسردگی شدیدی شده است، مشاهده یک مستند در مورد کمدیهای قدیمی خنده به لبش می آورد و در مورد زندگی کمدین مربوطه (هکتور مان) کنجکاو می شود. کنکاش او منجر به نوشتن کتابی در مورد فیلمهای هکتور مان می شود و دنیای پر ماجرای این نیهیلیست اخلاق گرا او را به درون خود می کشد. در هم پیچی روایتها بسیار هنرمندانه اتفاق می افتد، حرکت از زندگی در هم پاشیده پروفسور تا زندگی  غریب هکتور مان و ماجرای ترجمه کتاب خاطرات یک مرده شاتوریان. همه چیز مرتب و حساب شده است. پایان کتاب فوق العاده است..
"تا وقتی پشت مرد به چیزی گرم است، زندگی را آغاز نکرده است."

I'm torn and also disappointed.

The New York Trilogy is one of my favourite books and probably the book I've been most impressed by ever in terms of skill and intelligence. It's instantly boosted Paul Auster to among my top ten favourite authors. I love his writing - there's just something about it that boggled my mind (in a good way).

But The Book of Illusions disappointed me. The story was original and intriguing, but revolved too much around telling instead of showing, in my opinion. I'm guessing that was done on purpose, and at first I liked it, but it started to become tedious after a while.

That wasn't my biggest gripe, though. I could've dealt with that because I'll find pretty much anything that Auster writes interesting what with the writing style I previously talked about. But the women in this story... Man, they bugged me. Or, more accurately: it bugged me that Auster did a terrible job writing them. The women in this story aren't written as actual people. They're "the Other", as so many women in literature written by men are. They're flat characters, only there to facilitate a man's need, and their value and allure is directly connected to their feminitiy and their age. Yes, the story is told from a man's perspective (or, two men, actually), but why should that mean a woman is an object, relevant only in her use to a man? I'm just so done with that.

I was intrigued and once again impressed by Auster's talent for telling intelligent and original stories. Mostly I'm disappointed and exasperated, though.

College professor David Zimmer is steadily descending into alcoholic isolation after the loss of his wife and children in a plane crash, when he happens upon an old silent film that makes him laugh for the first time since the accident. When he finds out that the actor mysteriously disappeared some 60 years earlier, he begins to research his life and work, with unexpected consequences.

I like Paul Auster’s writing and I really enjoyed this one. It’s quite dense with a lot of description of films and not much dialogue (as he’s alone a lot of the time) but I was completely engaged in the fascination with the mysterious Hector Mann. I don’t think the ending quite did it justice, it seemed rushed and jarred with the rest of the story, but the buildup was wonderful.