Második olvasásom volt a szerzőtől. Soványka ismeret ez a gazdag életműből, de máris meggyőződésem, hogy ha lenne is bármi, amit Auster nem tud az írásról, az nyilván csakis valami okkult, tiltott tudás lehet, vagy ha mégsem, akkor olyasvalami, amit nem is érdemes tudni. Persze, ezzel – a köztünk élő kortársak sorában – nincs egyedül. Akkor mégis miért szögez bele a választott könyv az éppen kéznél lévő olvasó alkalmatosságba, és miért olvastatja magát úgy, mint egy könnyed, élvezetesen körömrágós, hiba nélkül való, szórakoztató lektűr.
…mert azért valljuk be, hogy Austerhez nem szükségeltetik defibrillátor, az ő történetei nem ébresztenek dúlt érzelmeket, nem késztetnek tudat alatt végletes lépésekre. Auster csupán leül egy helyre a közeledben, a szemedbe néz és egykedvűen elkezd mesélni. Látszólag olyan dolgokról, amelyek fiktív személyekkel történtek meg, nem létező helyszíneken, elképzelt időben. Majd szépen lassan beenged ezekre a helyekre és apróbb-nagyobb segítséggel ugyan, de hagyja, hogy magadnak képzeld tovább az illúziók, az álmok történetét. Beletelik némi időbe, amire eljutsz a tudásig, hogy mindaz, amit eléd tár, az nem más, mint önmaga. A folytonos küszködés az élettel, a kérdésekkel és tudatlansággal, a sejtésekkel és reményekkel, amik örök, kényszerű zsákutcába hajszolják az érző, gondolkodó embert, ahol nem vár más, csak csalódás, az üres, értelmét/célját vesztett holnapba nézés.
…mert minden csak ismétlődik. A kerék újra csak fordul egyet. Az uroborosz a farkába harap. Ismét csak lepereg majd egy film és az író polcra teszi az új könyvét. De mindeközben nem változik semmi, az emlékek csak gyötörnek tovább, a bűntudat egyfajta egzisztenciális szükségszerűséggé nemesül, a reménytelenség pedig az élet éltető elemévé egyszerűsödik (pedig ő maga mondja ki, hogy a remény élteti).
Úgy vélem, hogy Auster varázslata (ha lehet így fogalmazni vele kapcsolatban) az óhatatlan és észrevétlen azonosulásban rejlik. Abban, hogy amíg róla olvasunk, az ő személyes érzéseiben vájkálunk, az ő fejével próbálunk gondolkodni, akaratlanul is átcsúszunk egy olyan szellemlétbe, amelyben már önmagunkat boncoljuk és rádöbbenünk, hogy minden velünk történik, minden kérdés, nyűg és dráma a sajátunk, és mi vagyunk, akik soha nem találjuk majd meg a megoldást, de mégis velünk kezdődik majd az egész történet elölről.
Illúziók, álmok, remény és a kissé túlhúzott fatalitás regénye ez, és a végén valóban csak egy paraszthajszál választja el a lektűrösen tökéletes lekerekítéstől (ez persze csalódás). Mindazonáltal tagadhatatlan Auster zsenialitása.

"Questo è un libro di frammenti".

Ed è proprio così. Sono frammenti di dolore, di angoscia, di gioia, di una bellezza struggente. Sono frammenti di parole, di immagini. Sono frammenti di vita, frammenti di un uomo che ritorna a vivere dopo un dolore atroce, di un uomo che ritorna a sperare, ad amare, grazie a dei film e al cinema che si intreccia con la sua vita. E' un collage di emozioni, di immagini, sogni di arte. Un'arte che, con la sua forza e fragilità, è capace di dare e togliere, di commuovere, ma anche di dare speranza.

"Vivo in questa speranza".

Paul Auster, you bastard!

The man writes such depressing stuff. As with the other Auster I've read (I know I've only read 2 Austers, I am such a failure at being pretentious), I finished this and I was like... what, why did I read this?

To explain myself I should say that I follow the Roger Ebert school of criticism. Roger Ebert cares more about how a movie makes him feel than on its technical merits. Granted, this is rather less valid in the medium of words on a page than the sound and fury of film, but I still stick to it. I have no problem trashing Plath's Bell-jar, regardless of its supposed literary merit or historical significance, because it bored and annoyed me.

But getting to the point of this book, let me break it down for you literary thugs: there is a man whose family dies in an accident. He is depressed, but then he sees a silent comedy on TV and laughs for the first time in long while. He then decides to write about the star of this silent comedy, a man named Hector Mann. In the course of this, he finds out that Hector Mann disappeared, but he may actually still be alive!!! Stuff ensues, there are some themes brought up, there's some angst, there's some sex, you know the drill. And don't worry none of that's spoiler material, all on the first page basically.

Worth reading for a few pieces of stellar writing. I was particularly impressed by how Auster writes about a film that doesn't actually exist. I bought into it, I was convinced. It's a story within a story (within a story within a story ad nauseam), and it's true that the inner stories are better told than the outer ones. I'm cool with that.

In summary, though: "Paul Auster, you bastard!" is my review. If you likewise enjoy calling famous authors bastards, then I recommend this book to you highly.

As a side note, a result of this novel, I had to add a new shelf called "bepretentious." Just read some of the other, actually useful reviews and you'll see what I mean.

Born Again and Longing for It All to End

I’m guessing, but I don’t think this book was ever seriously edited. It appears to have been written in a continuous stream, not of consciousness but of wherever Austen’s characters wanted to take him at the moment to extricate themselves from frequent literary culs-de-sac. And this includes an immense amount of random detail of relevance to neither the plot nor the characters. The result is a fair short story imitating a rather bad middling size novel.

One important thing happens in the entire book - the accidental death of a young woman. The plot revolves around this death but on threads which seem to be thrown aimlessly into narrative space. The narrator, a widowed academic whose main aim is to distract himself from his loss, claims knowledge he couldn’t possibly have about events occurring a half century prior and told to him second and third hand. He informs the reader at great length about his perceptions but nothing about their meaning for him. Eventually he discovers love and redemption (sweet) and then carelessly loses that.

The protagonist, whose voice we hear only belatedly and briefly (and only in indirect speech; it is the constant indirect speech of ‘he said, she said’ that is a source of tediousness throughout), is a minor Hollywood celebrity of silent films. The academic has written a book about him and believes him dead. He is not; but he is dying. The academic is ambivalent but agrees to meet the ex-actor for reasons that are as unclear as all the other motivations in the story.

All the characters seem to exist in a fog-like drift of haplessness among the unlikely course of their lives. They wander into and out of relationships without reason. They do strange things - insult colleagues needlessly and maliciously, threaten others half-heartedly at gunpoint, attempt suicide (both inadvertently and with intent), stop and start careers casually (from sports goods retailing to the sex trade for example) - which punctuate otherwise pointless lives. The protagonist spends a great deal of his inherited wealth making films that no one else is intended to see.

The flatness of the prose is deadening. There is little relief from the endless dump of uninspired description. Dramatic structure is entirely absent. Events follow each other with no cumulative effect. There is a vague tension that something significant is about to happen. But it never does. What does happen is yet another episode leading nowhere, literary coitus interruptus.

Perhaps Auster’s point is that art only exists on the verge of extinction - extinction of the reader if not the artist. I blame myself. Given Auster’s prolificness and enormous following, it is clearly my unsympathetic inattention which is at fault. Nonetheless, I am left with the feeling of having spent more than several long hours listening to a drunk uncle at a wedding party. My only ambition is to get away before he starts another chapter of family history about people I care nothing about.

*WARNING FOR SPOILERS*

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound or not? This famous question is closely examined in "The Book of Illusions," by author Paul Auster, as he tells the story of literature professor David Zimmer, who copes with the death of his wife and two sons by shutting out the real world so that he can inhabit the "silent world of Hector Mann," an obscure actor from the 1920s. After leaving a dozen movies behind that nobody seems to know about, Hector disappeared in 1929, presumed dead. However, it turns out he is actually alive in New Mexico, paying penance for the role he played in the accidental death of his girlfriend – vowing never to make another movie and eventually only agreeing to make movies if they will be destroyed immediately upon his death and never be seen by an audience. According to Hector’s rationale, if he makes a movie and nobody sees it, then his movie does not exist. But is this true? Does an idea have to be shared – and experienced by others – to exist and take on meaning? Although he provides confusing answers throughout the work, first suggesting that Hector’s greatness can be achieved on his own, ultimately Auster seems to conclude that Hector’s works only become important when they are shared and experienced by others.

At first, Auster suggests Hector can attain greatness on his own, even without an audience. When Hector Mann disappears, his film career is pretty much over due to the invention of sound in movies and his heavy accent. His last major film, "Mr. Nobody," is a response to the frustration he feels about his career, as, in the film, his character takes a magic potion that makes him invisible. Eventually, he is reborn as a new person, and, facing himself in the mirror, he confronts the fact of his own annihilation with an exuberant smile – the last image of Hector Mann that will be seen by audiences, seemingly content with the idea he is "no longer the Hector Mann who has amused us and entertained us." Similarly, in his own life, Hector is forced to disappear after his girlfriend is killed, and, to disguise himself, he loses his trademark mustache, so that he is "the spitting image of Mr. Nothing himself." In his new life, Hector no longer makes movies, but instead works odd jobs and focuses on reading, writing, learning English, and planting trees. In his journals, Hector writes, "I talk only to the dead now. They are the only ones I trust, the only ones who understand me." Hector no longer shares himself with an audience – Hector Mann has been annihilated – but, according to his biographer and friend Alma, he is closer to greatness than ever before: "[T]he further he traveled from his point of origin, she said, the closer he came to achieving greatness. [. . . ]Even now, he still talks about the trees as his greatest accomplishment. Better than his films, she says, better than anything else he’s ever done." In this reading of Hector’s life, based on the interpretation of "Mr. Nobody," Hector is the only voice that matters; even without an audience, he can still attain greatness.

However, a later film, "The Inner Life of Martin Frost," questions this notion that artists can attain greatness without sharing their work with others. In this movie, which Hector made after his disappearance with the promise it would never be released to an audience, is different from his earlier work: it is serious, not a comedy, and Hector does not act in it. In the movie, Martin Frost, a writer, must destroy his work to save the life of his girlfriend Claire. After she is brought back to life and realizes what has happened, she erupts in tears, asking Martin if he realizes what’s he done and desperately wondering what they are going to do now. The movie ends ambiguously with her questions and no answers from Martin. Similarly, after Hector’s death, his wife Frieda destroys everything – his movies, his journals, and even the manuscript of a biography his friend Alma had been working on for seven years – in a "precise reenactment of the final scene of Martin Frost." Pondering Frieda’s actions, David thinks about Hector’s sacrifice of "the one thing that would have given his work meaning – the pleasure of sharing it with others," but then realizes that, in Frieda’s mind, "It was about making something in order to destroy it. That was the work, and until all evidence of the work had been destroyed, the work would not exist. It would come into being only at the moment of its annihilation." In Frieda’s interpretation, work was not created for others; in fact, sharing Hector’s work with others would cause it to lose its meaning.

However, ultimately, both of Auster’s protagonists – David Zimmer and Hector Mann – seem to repudiate Frieda and believe that Hector’s work does not lose meaning if it is shared with others. When Alma had first told David about her biography of Hector, he was initially skeptical: "It’s one thing to unburden himself to you, but a book is for the world, and as soon as he tells his story to the world, his life becomes meaningless." In other words, a book exists not for the author or subject but for readers, and by sharing himself with them, Hector could lose himself. He would exist as they saw him, and not as he really was – their illusions of him would become reality. When David questions Hector about why he would want to give himself away like that, Hector answers, "Why should it bother me to turn myself into an example for others? [. . . .] You laughed, Zimmer. Perhaps others will begin to laugh with you." These words – the last Hector speaks in the book – show his realization of the positive impact his work can have on others, as he comes to the conclusion that his earlier films, if they made David laugh, were "perhaps the greatest good" he had done. David ultimately seems to embrace Hector’s viewpoint, hoping that others will laugh with him, as he takes pleasure when Hector’s silent comedies are put out on video and becomes an honorary member of a fan club, the International Brotherhood of Hector Manniacs. Most of all, he hopes that someday the lost films of Hector Mann – the ones that Frieda destroyed – will be found somehow so others can enjoy them like he did, "and the story will start all over again. I live with that hope." In order to have meaning, Hector’s films must be shared with others. Unlike Frieda, David believes that Hector’s films should be shared with the world.

Although he provides confusing answers throughout "The Book of Illusions," first suggesting that Hector’s greatness can be achieved on his own, ultimately Auster seems to conclude that Hector’s works only become important when they are shared and experienced by others. Like the confusing answers to the question of the movie that nobody sees, "The Book of Illusions" is full of other confusing themes and contradictions. For example, one major theme of the book is the effect of chance and how small circumstances can have a significant impact on our lives. However, while there are some small circumstances which impact the action in the book, for the most part, the major events are more like contrived and implausible plot devices – an ex-girlfriend killed by a current girlfriend, a wife and two sons lost in a plane crash, David held at gunpoint so that he will watch a movie, a tough fall resulting in another death, a suicide, a possible murder. Are these really "small circumstances" of chance? Moreover, while this issue of fate is explored in depth like the meaning of one’s work, the two themes are never tied together. In Auster’s telling, both Hector and David cope with loss by turning to art but they are not reborn again except through accidents of fate, so that the one seemingly resolved idea in the book – the issue of the movie nobody hears – becomes irrelevant compared to the greater themes of fate and rebirth. The interplay between the various themes is never explored, and it is easy to get confused as all of these ideas are presented, but are often contradicted and never fully resolved, leading a reader to ponder the 2001 Atlantic Monthly article’s criticism of Paul Auster: "[He] knows the prime rule of pseudo-intellectual writing: the harder it is to be pinned down on any idea, the easier it is to conceal that one has no ideas at all." In light of the questions asked in "The Book of Illusions," it is easy to wonder: if an author throws out a lot of different ideas but never resolves them, so that readers can’t understand what those ideas are, do the ideas actually exist?

Auster, yine daha ilk cümlelerden okuru nasıl tavlayacağını biliyor. Sessiz film döneminin yeni tanınmaya başlamış figürlerinden Hector Mann bir gün sırra kadem basar, yıllar sonra onu unutuluşun karanlık kuyusundan yazdığı kitapla David Zimmer çıkarır. Aslını isterseniz hikaye kısaca böyle özetlenebilir. Fakat Auster, çıkış noktası olarak ele aldığı bu konuyu farklı yan hikayeler ve karakterlerle son derece derinlikli ve katmanlı bir anlatıya dönüştürüyor.

Asıl mesleği edebiyat öğretmenliği olan Zimmer’in yaşadığı büyük travmanın ardından karşısına tesadüfen çıkan Mann’ın, gizemli hikayesini, peşinden gidilecek yeni bir amaç olarak görmesiyle hayatının seyri değişir. Değme polisiye romanlara taş çıkartacak cinsten bu uzun hikayenin geç kalması muhtemel kahramanı oluverir.

Romanda, Hollywood’un sessiz film devrine ve o dönemin gölgede kalmış kahramanlarına saygı duruşu niteliğinde olan pasajlarla film endüstrisinin acımasız çarklarının arkasına bakmaksızın hızla ilerleyişiyle geride kalan pek çok emekçinin hüzünlü öykülerinin altı çiziliyor. Sinema tutkusunun insanın kanına karıştıktan sonra bir daha sökülüp atılmasının pek de mümkün olamayacağı anlaşılıyor. Yedinci sanatın diğer bütün sanat dallarını ve hayatın bizzat kendisini aşabilecek bir mecra olacağı müjdeleniyor.

Hikayede “sanat sanat için midir, sanat toplum için midir?” sorusu ile insanın kendi hayatının senaryosunu yazıp yazamayacağı diğer bir deyişle kendisine çizdiği rolü her durumda değiştirmeye gücünün yetip yetmeyeceği konuları tartışmaya açılıyor. Buna ek olarak aynı sanat eserini birbirinden habersiz takip eden insanların yakın duygu durumlarında olabilecekleri de ima ediliyor.

Auster üstkurmacaya yoğunlaştığı anlatısında, tarihi kimi kişilikler ve eserlere, sinemanın insanı yer yer hipnotize eden gücüne yaslanıyor. Hayatın sürprizlerine hazırlıksız yakalanan insan manzaralarının soluksuz biçimde izleneceği dokunaklı bir yapıt bırakıyor.

Primo romanzo che leggo di un autore, Paul Auster, di cui ho letto sempre bene, special modo per il suo romanzo più famoso, vale a dire "Trilogia di N.Y".
Psicologicamente sopravvissuto alla morte della famiglia in un disastro aereo, David Zimmer attraversa un normale periodo di depressione e sconforto assoluto interrotto, quasi magicamente (o, per l'appunto, in modo illusorio), dalla visione di un film muto alla televisione. In questa pellicola, che lo fa ridere fino alle lacrime, c'è un attore, il protagonista, Hector Mann, al quale decide di dedicarsi, vedendo e studiando i suoi film.
Da lì si aprono un ventaglio di storie, di matrioske di emozioni e frammenti di vite vissute, in un incalzare sempre più vorticoso.
La trama principale e' apparentemente lineare e anche un po' scarna, ma il vero nucleo del racconto sono il lungo flashback sulla vita di Mann prima e dopo la sua scomparsa e due descrizioni dei suoi film. Questi ultimi in particolar modo sono così dettagliati e descritti alla perfezione, che ti lasciano la sensazione esatta di aver visto anche tu quel film.
E' un romanzo che rapisce e incanta, una storia dolorosa raccontata da un amico, che ti si confida e si apre via via che il romanzo prosegue. Ogni pagina è dolorosa, misteriosa e incantevole. La scrittura di Auster è davvero incisiva, diretta, senza il benché minimo fronzolo, scandaglia le angosce e le nevrosi dell'uomo in modo fin troppo spietato, descrivendo la solitudine dell'uomo e i demoni che lo abitano con assoluta lucidità.

"Quando ti sono contro tutte le carte del mazzo, l'unico modo per vincere una mano è infrangere le regole"

questo è un libro che parla di relitti, frammenti scavati tra le macerie di vite distrutte, vite di cui in alcuni casi si perdono le tracce anni addietro e di cui si bruceranno i resti dopo la morte avvenuta fuori scena...David è un relitto pescato nella tempesta di una vita falciata, la sua famiglia è sparita in un sol colpo e lui per non affogare del tutto si aggrappa ai film dell'epoca del muto di un comprimario dimenticato da tutti, ne scrive la storia e riceve notizie dell'uomo via posta, un uomo che era sparito nel nulla decenni prima, comincia a intrigarsi e si fa trascinare alla riscoperta del resto della storia...e qua il libro prende il tocco "casuale" per cui Auster è famoso: una serie di eventi inanellati che creano le circostanze per la tragedia, ma che accadendo uno per volta non avvertono mai chi assiste del pericolo incombente...

un bel libro, ammantato della magia delle epoche andate, sceneggiature e piccoli racconti inseriti e lasciati cadere qua e là...merita senza dubbio una lettura, ma Trilogia di NY, La Musica del caso e Nel Paese delle ultime cose restano inarrivabili...

بول أوستر رغم ( أمريكيته) بيقدر يدمج القاريء مع روايته بكل سلاسة، ويقدر ينسج خيوط حبكته بكل مهارة ويمهد للأحداث ببراعة يحسد عليها.

ورغم أنه مش من مفضليني، إلا إنه روائي عظيم بإمكانيات مهولة، وخاصة لما تتطرق روايته للكلام عن السينما في عصورها، بتلاقي تأريخ ممتع للغاية متناسق جدا مع الرواية.

رواية جميلة ممتعة قوية، أوستر هنا بيتجلي وبيبعث روايته من أنقاض الحياة، ويستدعي تفاصيل بسيطة ليبني حبكته كشرارة تشعل النار، لنجد في النهاية أنفسنا مرسومة عبر صفحات الكاتب الأمريكي، رواية سينمائية مشاهدها مكتوبة بالعين قبل أن تُكتب بالقلم.

رابع لقاء لي مع أوستر، وفي كل مرة لا يخيّب ظني ويقدم لي وجبة أدبية مكثفة، وكالعادة الشكر موصول لترجمة أسامة منزلجي واللي دايما بتكون متقنة جميلة.

Paul Auster needs to stop. Now. In the beginning (starting with The New York Trilogy) his work was an interesting theoretical experiment. As of late he's become a caricature of himself. I'm tempted to accuse him of plagiarizing the Paul Auster of 20 years ago. The transcription of that court case would be like a general survey of his career and what he still insists on doing in his literature. The prosecution (Paul Auster) would convince the jury that the defense (Paul Austen, probably under a pseudonym) has committed some innate crime against human nature dealing with identity and structuralism. The judge (Paul Auster) would find everyone equally guilty and sentence them to a contrived, irrational suicide.

Auster has taken an interesting device for writing a single novel, and made it into his theory of literature.

An almost ridiculously funny book.

انسان زندگی واحد ندارد. او زندگی های بسیار دارد که هریک از پس دیگری می آیند، و همین عامل فلاکت اوست
شاتو بریان
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همه ی ما دوست داریم چیزهای غیرممکن را باور کنیم تا خود را مجاب کنیم که معجزه ممکن است
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فهمیدم بهتر است تنها بمانم و روزها را به جان کندن در تاریکی درونم بگذرانم
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همیشه او را می دیدم، همیشه دست هایم را دراز می کردم تا بغلش کنم و تا به او می رسیدم اتفاقی باعث میشد از خواب بپرم
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در خانه ماندم و به نابود کردن خودم ادامه دادم. اواخر سپت��مبر و اوایل اکتبر، هرشب بیش از نیم بر مشروب می خوردم. مشروب مرا از هرنوع فهم و احساس تهی می کرد و باعث میشد هیچ درکی از آینده نداشته باشم، و انسانی که به دنبال چیزی نباشد با مرده فرقی ندارد. چندبار در رویاهای طولانی نیمروز خود را با قر خواب آور یا گاز مونوکسیدکربن کشتم. هیچوقت کارم به جایی نکشید که بلایی سر خودم بیاورم، اما هروقت به یاد آن روزها می افتم می فهمم چقدر به ودکشی نزدیک شده بودم
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من به کشفی تجربی نائل شده بودم، کشفی که تمام ویژگی های یک اثبات ریاضی را داشت. حال که توان خندیدن را داشتم، به این معنی بود که کاملا کرت و بی حس نشده بودم، خودم را آنقدر از جهان منفک نکرده بودم که هیچ چیز نتواند وارد زندگی ام شود
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احساس می کردم همیشه در فیلم زیاد گفته و نشان داده می شود و جایی برای تخیل مخاطب باقی نمی ماند و تناقض در این بود که فیلم ها هرچه بیشتر به شبیه سازی از واقعیت روی می آوردند، بیشتر در بازنمایی جهان شکست می خوردند، چرا که جهان همانقدر که بیرون ماست، درون ما نیز هست
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- می خواهید با یک مخدر قوی بیرون بروید و کار را تمام کنید؟
- آقای دکتر، من فراموشی می خواهم نه مرگ. مخدر مرا خواب می کند و چون چیزی نمی فهمم، به کاری که می کنم فکر نمی کنم
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به نظر می رسد او در وضعیت گیجی طنزآمیزی به سر می برد، در آن واحد هم درگیر جهان است و هم آن را از فاصله ی دور می نگرد
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وقتی تمام ورق های دستتان نشان می دهد که بازنده اید، تنها راه پیروزی شکستن قوانین است
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او روحی است که پوست و استخوان دارد، انسانی که دیگر انسان نیست. او هنوز در جهان زندگی می کند، اما جهان دیگر جای او نیست. او به قتل رسده، اما هیچکس آنقدر مهربان و باملاحظه نبوده که او را بکشد، او خیلی ساده حذف شده است
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من در کتاب بودم و کتاب در سر من بود، و تا وقتی خود را در سررم محبوس می کردم می توانستم به نوشتن ادامه دهم
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زندگی توهمی است که هر روز از نو خلق می شود
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صدایش بیش از حد شاد بود، انگار تمام کلماتش می خندیدند
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زندگی بر من بسیار سخت گذشت، شاید مرگ راحت تر باشد
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استخوان های خشک و پوسیده وزن چندانی ندارند.در آن سفر واپسین بسیار سبکتر از زمانی خواهند بود که بر زمینشان می کشیدم، در حالی که بار سنگین مشکلات نیز بر آنها اضافه شده بود
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جهان پر از حفره است. روزنه های کوچک بی معنا، شکاف های میکروسکوپی که ذهن می تواند به آنها وارد شود و آنگاه که به سوی یکی از این حفره ها می رسید، از خود، زندگی تان، مرگتان و هر آنچه متعلق به شماست رها شده اید
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فهمیده بود زندگی جز کابوسی که آدم در حال تب می بیند نیست، و واقعیت چیزی نیست جز عره حدس و توهم، مکانی که هر تخیلی ممکن است در آن به وقوع بپیوندد
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داستان ها همیشه همینطورند. تا یک دقیقه قبل هیچ خبری نیست، و در عرض یک دقیقه ظاهر می شوند، گویی از قبل جایی درونتان بوده اند
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برای اینکه جلوی خودم را بگیرم باید از حقیقت چشم بپوشم، و اگر این کار را بکنم تمام چیزهای خوب در من می میرند
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آدم زمانی شروع می کند، و وقتی قرار است همه چیز تمام شود، دیگر مهم نیست چقدر از نقطه ی آغاز دور شده است. فکر می کردم تو می توانی نجاتم دهی، فکر می کردم می توانم مال تو باشم. ااما من جز آنها مال هیچکس نیستم، به خاطر رویایی که نشانم دادی ممنونم، دیوید.
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در این برهه از تاریخ که برای فسردن و پژمردگی هرچیز یک روز کافی است، هر آن کس که عمر طولانی کند، دار فانی را زنده وداع گفته است. در آن هنگام که از زندگی عزیمت می کنیم، سه یا چهار تصویر از خود برجا می گذاریم که هریک متفاوت از دیگری است. این تاویر از خلال مه گذشته، در هیات تصاویری از سنین گوناگون خویش می بینیم
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به علت وقوعشان فکر نکردم. فکر کردن به علت این وقایع مثل این بود که زانو بزنم و درِ مخفی زیر فرش اتاقم را باز کنم، در حالی که جرات نگاه کردن به تاریکی درونش را ندارم
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جز زنده نگه داشنتن خودم راه دیگری برای عزاداری پیدا نمی کردم
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فکرهایی هستند که ذهن را آشفته می کنند، فکرهایی بسیار زشت و نیرومند که به محض اینکه به ذهنت خطور کردند نابودت می کنند. از آنچه می دانستم ترسیدم و برای همین فکرهایم را به زبان نیاوردم، تا وقتی که دیگر دیر شده بود و گفتنشان فرقی به حالم نمی کرد
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تو پیروز شده ای، و من تسلیمم. اما از این پس تو نیز مرده ای - مرده از دنیا، بهشت و امید! تو در من وجود داشتی، و ببین که در مرگ من، که از آن خود توست، چگونه خویشتن را به تمام هلاک کرده ای
ادگار آلن پو

Am simtit de cateva ori, pe parcursul lecturii, un fel de revolta interioara pentru ciudatenia si neverosimilitatea faptelor, eram tentata sa spun ca nu imi place acest roman lafel de mult ca celelalte de Auster citite de mine, desi nu l-am putut lasa din mana.
Chiar mi-am mai pus intrebarea : are scriitura lui Auster o latura comerciala ?
Dar nu, in final nu am putut sa nu recunosc ca si acesta mi se pare valoros.
Nararea fluida, fara inflorituri, naturala, perfecta, simbolurile inserate, faptul ca pana si aparent plictisitoarea povestire a unor filme mute este o placere, imaginatia uluitoare, misterul, insasi bizareriile care te debusoleaza, toate acestea si multe altele sunt pentru mine motivele pentru care il consider pe Auster un scriitor extrem de talentat.
Am fost aproape convinsa ca personajul Hector Mann si filmele sale au existat cu adevarat, intr-atat de "viu" este conturat.
Mi-au placut insertiile de Chateubriand si Hawthorne, felul in care ele au dat semnificatie catorva fapte.
Voi continua sa il descopar pe Auster, pur si simplu imi place.