El cuaderno rojo

In 1947, a friend of mine, P., was born. He went on to live much of his life in New York or Europe. He was particularly attached to France, spending much of his time there even when there was no real reason for him to do so, and that might have contributed to his fame in that country. P. became a writer of banally meta stories, another reason that the French love him so much, and I thought that he would go there and never return. Perhaps that's why I never read his work.

He published many novels and stories, gradually becoming more and more well known, until finally people were willing to publish anything he wrote.

Anyway, as I was saying, I had not met P. since his birth. Then I was sent a book in the mail by a reputable press. It was beautifully designed, and I was excited to discover what all the fuss was about. Sadly, I was greatly disappointed. His style could best be likened to soporific national public radio, in which the content is of little importance compared to the fact of your listening to national public radio and the soft, gentle voices of the presenters. P. and I will not be speaking for many years to come.

A famous writer writes bullshit about coincidences that happened to him and gets it published, while hundreds of others struggle to have their own fascinating, excellent work taken seriously. What a coincidence!!!

This slim collection contains some entertaining vignettes, principally a string of coincidences that have occurred to Auster throughout the years written in a conversational tone. It's sparse and elegant writing, especially "Why Write?" which is a brief tribute to the importance of memory and reclaiming the lingering experiences of childhood.

I liked it, three stars, nothing great. Interesting, but nothing earth shattering.

Inspirational, as ever. I thoroughly enjoyed these charming true tales, and loved the essays on French poetry and translation. PA's take on the High Wire artist who walked between the Twin Towers is extremely moving, and his Prayer for Salman Rushdie invariably makes me ashamed I don't devote enough of my own freedom to writing more.

A short book of 103 pages full of fascinating reflections on coincidences, unexpected or bizarre events in our lives, that have great significance in the long run. I particularly liked the author's story on how he became a writer. Missing out on a chance to get Willie Mays autograph because he didn't have a pencil, he started having a pencil with him at all times, which encouraged him to write. A great read for a short, 90 minute airline hop.

Not sure if this qualifies as fiction. It's a short book that recalls anectdotes of a coincidential nature that happened to the author over the course of his life. In some respects Borgesian in nature--these stories have a more true to life flavor to them. They are interesting though--and at times funny--and when not usually intriguing anyway. Auster does tell them well but then again that's not a surprise. Very good tone. A book easily readable in a couple of hours.