I don’t even know how I got this book. A
fairly typical Auster novel. And the issue with fairly typical Auster novels is
that, well, they are a bit too typical. And when they’re not works of art (to
me Sunset Park still tops the list, together with the slightly more atypical
Mr Vertigo) they’re just more of the same. And when you have read a lot
of them, well, you get the idea.
The entire book/letter reads like an extended
introspective anecdote from one of Auster’s bigger novels, and while there is
nothing wrong with that in itself, it just doesn’t excite me anymore.
Ah, and I think that McCarthy does American
dystopia so much better (although the preparations for the final uncertain trip
remind me of the tension of the final scene of The Birds).
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