Almost everything is perfect about Auster. He portrays perfectly the lives of people who had frustrating losses but trying to cling to life; who made big mistakes but trying to compensate them with functional and right acts and who lost their ways somehow but trying to make their existence meaningful again and do their best to the end. Accordingly his fiction always gives me inspiration. Whenever i read his books, i think about my life and my motivations, that's why i like reading him, he always manages to attract me. The Book of Illusions validates my aforementioned thoughts. But why the sex element exists too much (maybe unnecessary for many occasions) in his books? For this one, it disturbed me more than anytime before. Am i lonely for this thought?

Still, i can not mark you down Auster (too much sentimentality?):****

کتاب من از دل اندوه و افسوس عمیقی زاده شده بود. حتی حالا که آن دوران را پشت سر گذاشته‌ام آن اندوه رهایم نکرده است. نوشتن درباره کمدی بهانه‌ای بیش نبود، دارویی بود که یک سال تمام هر روز بی رعایت زمان بندی می‌خوردم تا درد درونم را آرام کند. از برخی جهات این دارو اثر کرد.

‎متن از کتاب

I read this more than ten years ago, so I cannot write a detailed review. But I can still remember the feeling of eagerly reading this book. And that's a good memory.