Paul Auster was the bestselling author of 4 3 2 1, Bloodbath Nation, Baumgartner, The Book of Illusions, and The New York Trilogy, among many other works. In 2006 he was awarded the Prince of Asturias Prize for Literature. Among his other honors are the Prix M茅dicis 脡tranger for Leviathan, the Independent Spirit Award for the screenplay of Smoke, and the Premio Napoli for Sunset Park. In 2012, he was the first recipient of the NYC Literary Honors in the category of fiction. He was also a finalist for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award (The Book of Illusions), the PEN/Faulkner Award (The Music of Chance), the Edgar Award (City of Glass), and the Man Booker Prize (4 3 2 1). Auster was a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Commandeur de l鈥橭rdre des Arts et des Lettres. His work has been translated into more than forty languages. He died at age seventy-seven in 2024.
What is this thing? A parable of spiritual self-development? A re-telling of the Wizard of Oz from the point of view of the Wicked Witch? A case study in Stockholm Syndrome? Whatever Auster meant it to be, it is uninspiring, unedifying, and, as far as I can tell, meaningless - a collection of miscellaneous writerly bits and pieces dumped in the same bin bag of a novel because the mess was getting underfoot. It may be a dot on the literary map of Auster鈥檚 journey but not much more.
Exceptionally cruel child abuse in the cause of a carnival levitation act is not the most promising of story lines. Nor are the characters involved in the story - the obnoxious St. Louis street urchin, the Hungarian rabbi and mystical teacher, the ricketty black genius from Georgia, the drunken Wichita widow on the make, and the toothless Sioux matron who rode with Wild Bill Cody. They are little more than just weird 鈥榯ypes鈥�, ingredients thrown together to see what the resulting goulash might taste like. And aside from the 鈥榳ax on, wax off鈥� 33-Step Program by the Mr. Miyagi-like Hungarian Master, there is no intellectual or spiritual take-away.
The relentless prose of the senescent narrator as he relates his largely non-adventures is relieved only occasionally by his youthful voice of sarcasm, resistance, and regret. But that too gets old rapidly. The mystery of the missing 60 years or so between the two is not enough to sustain the reader鈥檚 attention. Sure 鈥渢here comes a time in every levitator鈥檚 career when the air is fraught with peril鈥� But that doesn鈥檛 really conjure up any sympathy. Nor does it explain the transition by the urchin from carnival act to baseball-obsessed mobster and on to launderette manager with a sexual penchant for the elderly.
It frequently appears that Auster loses interest in his own story when he has nothing on the shelf to fill in page-bulk. An absurd fantasy about the baseball player Dizzy Dean goes on interminably; While crucial decades are compressed into single sentences. Motivations are absent, forced, or just silly. Something is driving these people but it鈥檚 never described much less defined. And whatever it is has no connection with life as it exists on this planet, except perhaps Auster鈥檚 deadline.
It is not inconceivable that Auster internalised Robertson Davies鈥檚 Deptford Trilogy, written two decades previously, and decided it would be better re-written in the style of Gabriel Garcia M谩rquez - a sort of North American magic realism. A very strange melange, quesadillas with maple syrup perhaps. It鈥檚 not a great theory but at least it stops further fruitless search for significance beyond Auster鈥檚 implicit advice to steer clear of Kansas. But that I already knew.
I read this book for class. No, I'm not going to follow that with an 'and thus I hated it', so if that's your type of thing, shoo. I won't deny that some of those mandated readings during those readers of yore were a total slog, but that was more if not wholly due to extenuating circumstances of teaching style/my young self than the novel itself. Now that I'm older and have an almost obsessively vested interest in literature, I can look at these classroom assignments in book form and say, hm. That really wasn't so bad.
More than not bad, actually. Not great, but rather good, the rough sort of polish that would in fact be much more appropriate to the high school setting than all that Shakespeare and Dickens and a whole host of other books that should only be taught if the teacher really knows what they're doing, and that rarely happens, if at all. The one case I can personally remember of complete and utter success was that of senior year Hamlet; the rest barely surface in the memory as a quick liked or didn't like notation, except for the couple that I absolutely loathed. Now, I can't claim that, had I been offered Mr. Vertigo for inspection fully acquitted by state standards of education, I would remember it today in a positive, well-that-was-worth-it light. I am fairly certain, though, there would have been a very good chance of it.
First thing, this is not the Great American Novel. Which is fantastic, because frankly that is not the sort of thing that the majority of high school students are going to give the smallest flying crap about. Instead, it is a very American Novel. Easily swallowable sentences, fast paced action, the kind of visual imagery well adapted to the movie screen, and vulgar realism in the manner of 1920's United States, home of vaudeville, baseball, and the thick and viscous grime of rampant racism that flowed with all the speed of a horde of horsed members of the Ku Klux Klan. Also, did I mention swearing? Because swearing.
So, this novel is not tidy. It is not nice. It is not highflown with phenomenal use of language or aspirations towards justice in the sort of prettied up metaphorics that will either astound you or send you to sleep, depending on just how much you care about the potential of the written word, which when concerning the average high school reader with the average high school English teacher is close to nil. Or college English professor, because while I have to thank the prof for getting me to read this, my enjoyment would have been a stunted and sluggish thing had I completely relied on his guidance. Regardless, with this complete lack of all those characteristics of 'highbrow' literature (which I love, I really do, but the cults clamoring around all these mostly dead old white men? not so much), what does this book have to offer?
What it has to offer is a a good ol' tugging on the emotions in every direction, a straightforward stripping down of stereotypes into their viciously ignorant realities including the horrors that result from such, and heart. So much heart that I guarantee a few of even those oh so hardened high school kids will bawl their eyes out at least once by the time the last page is turned. Better yet, they will have understood exactly what this book is trying to achieve, beyond all the insipid blatherings of symbolism and foreshadowing and every other keyword that makes me wince whenever I'm forced to use them in my own writing. They will identify this little boy, this pompous prat, who starts out as the most racist brat that ever spewed out bigoted phrases a mile a minute, and ends as an old man who has ridden the highs, drowned in the lows, and is typical in every way except the amazing life he led, and all that he carved into his bones from it. Best of all, they will see the US in its glory and its filth, and will be left to decide on their own terms just how they will deal with it. Something that few, if any, high school books that I remember dealt with in such a tender and unflinching fashion. To Kill a Mockingbird is one thing; a look at prejudiced realities with all their specific language and harmful effects without one bit of comforting distance is quite another.
In short, if I ever find myself at the head of a high school English classroom (looking more plausible by the day), I'll be keeping this book in mind. Okay, so the book is easy to read, and won't challenge high schoolers as much (on a ridiculously incomprehensible level) as 'David Copperfield' or 'The Odyssey'. Who cares? Look, we'll keep those, but how about sacrificing a Hemingway in the name of something enjoyable that isn't riddled with misogyny and other bigoted bents? It's not like he isn't plenty popular enough, and truthfully, The Sun Also Rises hurt my soul. I'll keep it on for outside reading though, make everyone happy.
Ew. A bombastic failure of the Book of Illusions-Brooklyn Follies type. (Oh, these Auster books--you know what I mean.) A very over-hyped writer does his own take on the fantastic American Man/myth embodiment--cough cough silence cough. (Major pity I read the phenomenal "Billy Bathgate", another tidy rags to dirty riches story, earlier this year. This is like the Hallmark Movie Network version of that grade-A literarily-earned machofable.) Timbuktu, Invisible, New York Trilogy, these are the only Acceptable Austers. Oracle Night. I mean it. Otherwise, middleschoolgrade fodder to properly ignore.
Murakami vibes. Is Paul Auster one of those American writers who fail to make an impression on the European side, or did I just not pick up the right book?
I don't quite know how to categorise this novel, but I definitely enjoyed every word of it.
I came to it with an expectation that it would be an exercise in post-modernism. This is only true to the extent that it mimics a traditional or conventional style of novel. At one level, it's an historical novel. At another, it's a fictional memoir. It's also somewhat picaresque. But then...
My first reaction was to try to work out what authors or works it reminded me of. The ones that eventually came to mind were Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, John Barth, Kurt Vonnegut, Michael Moorcock, "The Adventures of Augie March" and "Ragtime".
The main characters (and there are many of them) constitute a rogues鈥� gallery, and could each have been the subject of their own novel. Their descriptions are enticing, if not outright hilarious.
A Street Kid with His Eye on the Main Chance
The narrator is Walter (Walt) Clairborne Rawley. He was born in 1915. At the age of nine, after having been orphaned and living unhappily with his aunt and Uncle Slim in Saint Louis, he is lured away by Master Yehudi, who promises to teach him how to fly within three years.
The master is an Hungarian Jew, whose father and grandfather were both rabbis. Walt initially thinks of him as the King of the Gypsies and the Prince of Blackness, and tries to escape his clutches.
Early on, the master calls Walt a "pus-brained ragamuffin from honky-tonk row". Walt thinks of himself at age nine as "a city boy who had grown up with jazz in his blood, [and] a street kid with his eye on the main chance...a boogie-toed prankster, a midget scatman with a quick tongue and a hundred angles...a fiery little dunce...a know-it-all...a selfish ingrate...a tough little bugger...a no-good bum...a born outlaw."
Walt's life changes so much, it's never clear what his true identity is. Equally, he never achieves any form of authenticity, beyond the self that emerges from his memoir, which in truth is a (magical) work of the imagination, of Paul Auster, at least.
The master receives financial support for his project from his "high class" paramour, a "tough broad" and a "skinny wench", the "widow lady" Marion Witherspoon, "a beautiful woman with red hair." For fans of Michael Moorcock, she reminded me a lot of an attractive Mrs Cornelius.
A Placid Wave of Nothingness
Walt describes his first experience of levitation like this: "I was weightless inside my own body, floating on a placid wave of nothingness, utterly detached and indifferent to the world around me."
He didn't fly like Superman, he hovered, "motionless and aloft." He works on the art of loft and locomotion, until the master deems him ready for the world of show business. Locomotion was "a dreamlike walking through air that was essentially no different from walking on the ground." By the age of 12, he's able to walk on water. Soon, he can rise vertically, just as the reader has learned to suspend disbelief. They call him "Walt the Wonder Boy", though he is no mere trickster or charlatan ("no wires, no mirrors, no trapdoor...There鈥檚 no gimmick."), and soon he's on the vaudeville circuit, accumulating a fortune between the three of them.
The public attention means that Walt must endure an encounter with the Ku Klux Klan, a kidnapping and a near fatal attempt to overturn their car on the highway. "So be it."
But Walt's ultimate downfall is puberty and his growing interest in the pleasure of his pecker. He walks away from his act, intending to work in Hollywood, but his plan doesn鈥檛 eventuate. Instead, he ends up starting a glamorous nightclub in Chicago (from which comes the title of the novel, "Mr. Vertigo's") in cahoots with the Mafia. Here, he learns that "when a man comes to the end of the line, the only thing he really wants is death." The war intervenes and he spends four years in the army, after he loses his financial interest in the nightclub. On his return from active service, he settles into domesticity, although he never has any children. His pursuit of the American Dream has come to a conclusion. "So it goes."
A Flight of Fancy
Walt eventually sits down to write his book. His advice to readers is, "With enough hard work and concentration, every human being is capable of duplicating the feats I accomplished as Walt the Wonder Boy. You must learn to stop being yourself...You must let yourself evaporate...and then shut your eyes. That's how it's done...Like so."
That's an initiatory novel, a philosophical tale mixing wonder, realism, and history. Many adventures in this novel mix different genres, as often with Paul Auster. Master Yehudi, who promised to teach Walt to fly even if it would not be like birds, took him. After a problematic apprenticeship, he simultaneously succeeded as Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic. Soon, terrible headaches and dizziness prevent Walt from continuing on this path, and his life will take other paths. After this first part, in a marvelous or magical realism style (because we also come across the odious K.K.K), childhood and youth end, and the novel becomes more realistic. This novel evokes America from the 1920s to 1992 (the date on which the old hero writes his memoirs), that of jazz, gangsters, cinema, the America of wide open spaces, remote towns, and big cities. It is also a philosophical tale in which man pushes his limits beyond what appeared possible.
Ho creduto ad una bellissima favola , poteva rappresentare Il Peter Pan prima di diventare Famoso, invece 猫 Walt il Bambino Prodigio. 脠 un levitatore di quelli veri, non certo un ciarlatano. Non crediate per貌 che imparare a volare per lui sia stata una passeggiata; niente di pi霉 falso. Dietro un tale prodigio tre anni di fatica, sudore, panico e talmente tanto terrore da far somigliare l'addestramento al volo a un indimenticabile soggiorno negli inferi . Il tutto sotto la guida di Yehudi, un ebreo ungherese, sarcastico, cortese, appassionato di Spinoza, maestro di volo e di vita per il piccolo Walt. Leggendo questo libro, crederete come me che Walt Rawley sia realmente esistito, che il bambino "pi霉 piccolo, pi霉 sozzo, abbia davvero raggiunto la fama levitando a qualche palmo e pi霉 da terra, che abbia poi sperimentato di nuovo la vita " normale" e si sia rialzato sulle proprie gambe. Tutto 猫 tremendamente reale: 猫 reale la terra con i suoi pericoli e le sue ombre, ed 猫 reale l'aria minata di insidie e gravit脿. Ogni luce ha un'ombra, e a questa verit脿 猫 impossibile sfuggire. Lo stesso Auster ci dice che volare non 猫 poi cos矛 difficile e si pu貌 cadere stando a mezz'aria, cos矛 come si pu貌 ruzzolare stando con i piedi per terra. In qualunque modo e in qualunque momento ci si ritrovi a terra, bisogna conservare la propria Dignit脿 sempre, anche quando 猫 il far della notte a sorprendere. 脠 cos矛 che Auster non mi ha deluso la sua storia scorre come un dialogo diretto tra il lettore e il protagonista. Da leggere
[3.8] I am puzzled and bemused. This is a messy novel that is at times bizarre, conventional, thrilling, pedestrian. There is a boy named Walt, he is taken under the wing of Master Yehudi and learns to fly with no contraptions; he grows up and has several other adventures including a weird thing with a baseball player; then he lives a conventional life and then...well you have to read it. It helps to love the way Auster thinks and writes. And I do.
鈥淏asta smettere di essere se stessi. 脠 da l矛 che si comincia; tutto il resto viene di conseguenza. Bisogna lasciarsi svaporare鈥�
鈽呪槄鈽呪槄陆
E' noto che l鈥�incipit di un romanzo debba contenerne i tratti salienti: tutte quelle informazioni che ci permettono di tracciare un percorso e ci consentano di addentrarci nei meandri della storia. Come un biglietto da vista, insomma, l鈥�incipit deve contenere informazioni generali ma precise.
Ecco dunque come si presenta la storia di 鈥淢r Vertigo鈥�:
鈥� Avevo dodici anni la prima volta che camminai sulle acque. A insegnarmi il trucco fu l鈥檜omo vestito di nero e non sarebbe da me far finta di aver imparato nel giro di una notte. Maestro Yehudi, che mi aveva trovato quando di anni ne avevo solo nove, ero orfano e vagavo per le strade di Saint Louis mendicando spiccioli, mi aveva addestrato per tre anni di seguito prima di lasciarmi esibire i miei numeri in pubblico. Correva il 1927, l鈥檃nno di Baby Ruth e di Charles Lindbergh, proprio l鈥檃nno in cui la notte incominci貌 a calare sul mondo una volta per tutte. Tenni duro fino a pochi giorni prima del crollo d鈥檕ttobre, e quel che facevo era pi霉 strabiliante di qualunque fantastica impresa dei due galantuomini appena nominati. Vale a dire, ci貌 che nessun americano aveva fatto prima e ci貌 che da allora pi霉 nessuno ha fatto. Maestro Yehudi scelse me perch茅 ero il pi霉 piccolo, il pi霉 sozzo, l鈥檜ltimo dei miserabili. - Sei come una bestia, - disse, - uno scampolo di umana nullit脿 -.鈥�
Fate come me e non leggete la sinossi riportata in quarta di copertina perch茅 vi assicuro che dice troppo e vi rovina la lettura. Fatevi, invece, trasportare da questa storia che arriva a toccare il cielo come la pi霉 profonda terra. Questa 猫 la vita del piccolo Walt che dai marciapiedi di Saint Louis si eleva ad altezze insperate e si fa uomo attraverso un sali e scendi di avvenimenti.
Una favola per i suoi elementi fantastici dove, non a caso, il migliore amico di Walt si chiama Esopo. Ma Auster sembra quasi voler dire che se la Letteratura pu貌 condurci in altre dimensioni non deve comunque dimenticare di essere strumento di riflessione sul reale. Volare e ritornare coi piedi per terra. Essere ambiziosi, godere di una propria supposta superiorit脿 ma rimanendo ancorati a se stessi alla propria umanit脿, alla propria umilt脿. Un romanzo di formazione e trasformazione. Perch茅 se la materia pu貌 assumere diversi stati anche un鈥檈sistenza pu貌 essere multiforme.
鈥� - Ti sforzi troppo, - mi disse Esopo un pomeriggio. - Sei tanto logorato dal tuo stesso senso di giustizia, che non vedi pi霉 tutto quello che hai intorno. E se non vedi le cose che hai sotto il naso, non potrai mai guardare te stesso e scoprire chi sei. - Ma io lo so chi sono, - dissi io. - Voglio vedere chi 猫 capace di portami via anche questo.鈥�
Uma das coisas que gosto nos livros de Paul Auster 茅 a habilidade com que mistura o quotidiano mais comezinho com acontecimentos irreais, de uma forma t茫o natural que pareceria imposs铆vel poder funcionar, n茫o se tratando de um livro de fantasia ou fic莽茫o cient铆fica. E foi isso mesmo que ele fez mais uma vez neste Mr. Vertigo, que li com imenso prazer do princ铆pio ao fim. Obrigada Carlos!
'I was twelve years old the first time I walked on water. The man in the black clothes taught me how to do it, and I'm not going to pretend I learned that trick overnight.
Mr. Vertigo is the story of Walter Rawley, who recounts how at the age of nine he made a pact with the man who promised to teach him how to fly. Master Yehudi spotted young Walt on the streets of Saint Louis, sweeping the foul-mouthed and lonely kid off the ground with his promise. Yehudi swears that if he fails to teach Walt how to fly by his thirteenth birthday he can hop off his head with an axe. After weighing his options young Walt decides to take the risk and go away with Yehudi, rather than live a gloomy life of an orphan on the streets Saint Louis. The year was 1927, just two years short of the stock market crash which started the Depression - the year of Babe Ruth and Charles Lindbergh, the precise year when night started to fall on the world forever.
Walt is taken by Master Yehudi to a farm in a remote region of rural Kansas, the big sky country - far away from everywhere, but not lonely. Yehudi introduces him to Aesop, a young black cripple of extraordinary intelligence for whom he predicts great things, and Mother Sioux - his housekeeper and a grandniece of Chief Sitting Bull. Being the kid that he is Walk soon tries to run away from his education, but no matter where he goes he always finds Master Yehudi waiting for him with a smile. Realizing that he cannot escape, Walt surrenders and gives himself in to Master Yehudi's Flight course in 33 stages. Yehudi believes that people are not able to lift themselves off the ground because they were taught that such things are impossible, and that only those tainted with little education can overcome their personal disbelief. Yehudi's lessons are hard physical and psychological trials, which include having Walt chop off a part his little finger to show his devotion, and have him to survive the horror of being buried alive to crush his spirit and hope. Only then, Master Yehudi believes, will Walt be able to let go of what he was, defy gravity and lift himself off the ground. Walt manages this in unexpected circumstances, and his new life takes off - he becomes Walt the WonderBoy, and walks on water for the first time in the same year that Charles Lindbergh flew across the Atlantic.
Mr. Vertigo can be divided into two halves. The first part, where Walt meets Master Yehudi and lives with him and his companions in his Kansas estate is engrossing and full of mystery and a sense of wonder. Rural Kansas is far away from Disney's Neverland, and mastering the art of flight is a process full of hardships for young and unruly child that Walt is at the beginning of the novel. Walt is a strong willed, know-all street smart kid, not unlike Mark Twain's Huck Finn, irritated and fascinated by the inscrutable Master Yehudi whom he can't figure out. Walt's determination turns into a strange loyalty to Master Yehudi, and eventually becomes genuine devotion and admiration.
The second part which takes takes Walt across the country in with his flying theatrics remains captivating, but loses the joy of discovery that the first one had. Despite being fantastical it has an air of more seriousness, which is obviously understandable as Walt matures and learns more about people around him. As Walt soars higher into the air, characters which previously seemed to be larger than life are stripped from the cloak of mystery surrounding them and revealed as frail and fractured. Although this reversal serves its purpose, the sense of mystery which made the first part so readable is largely diminished. Walt's life remains adventurous, full of rumble and tumble of the 20th century and an evolving nation with its famous people and places, but there's a sense of loss penetrating the pages - it's unavoidable as characters and people mature and sometimes make bad decisions which have their consequences and can flip their lives on its head. Mr. Vertigo is as much about being able to move on after suffering a loss of something important as it is from being able to embrace it in the first place.
For such a short novel (it's under 300 pages), Mr. Vertigo is reasonably succesful, given the fact that it's Paul Auster's clearest attempt at writing a picaresque novel, with a likable rogue protagonist and a cast of memorable supporting character together with seamless employment of different themes which aim to mirror the development of a whole nation - and a great opening line to boot. Not much to dislike here, but possibly much pleasure to be found within its pages.
Apesar de ter muitos livros de Paul Auster na minha estante (11), s贸 depois do an煤ncio da morte da 煤ltima 鈥渆strela鈥� da Literatura Americana 茅 que decidi iniciar-me na sua obra, come莽ando por Mr. Vertigo, atra铆da pela sinopse intrigante e pela reputa莽茫o do romance como uma das obras mais cativantes de Auster.
脡 uma hist贸ria que mergulha nas profundezas da alma humana, explora temas como identidade, amadurecimento e a busca pelo significado da vida.
Quando passamos muito tempo a olhar para o rosto de algu茅m, acabamos por ter a sensa莽茫o de que estamos a olhar para n贸s pr贸prios.
Estamos em 1924, e Walt Rawley, um 贸rf茫o de 9 anos de idade que vive nas ruas de Nova York durante a Grande Depress茫o, 茅 recrutado por um misterioso homem chamado Mestre Yehudi para aprender a arte do voo.
N茫o vales mais do que um animal. Se continuares assim, n茫o chegar谩s vivo ao fim do Inverno. Se vieres comigo, ensinar-te-ei a voar.
Walt aceita a proposta e segue com o Mestre Yehudi para uma quinta isolada de tudo.
Estamos no Kansas. E podes crer que, em toda a tua vida, nunca viste uma terra mais plana nem mais desolada.
Os primeiros tempos n茫o s茫o f谩ceis, e como todos os mi煤dos, ele 茅 rebelde e tem grande resist锚ncia a ser educado. Na quinta, Walt faz amizade com um mi煤do negro, Esopo, que adora estudar e tem um conhecimento prodigioso, e ganha afei莽茫o por M茫e Sioux, neta de Sitting Bull. Depois de ultrapassadas as primeiras dificuldades, Walt finalmente consegue completar os 33 degraus e acaba por levitar.
Tinha doze anos quando caminhei sobre as 谩guas pela primeira vez. Foi o homem de preto quem me ensinou a fazer isso e n茫o vou p么r-me para aqui com hist贸rias e dizer que aprendi o truque da noite para o dia.
Ap贸s um ataque do Ku Klux Klan, Walt e Yehudi partem numa digress茫o pelos Estados Unidos, e a partir daqui o romance avan莽a rapidamente. Assistimos 脿 ascens茫o e queda do seu espect谩culo, 脿 carreira como gangster, 脿 abertura do seu nightclub Mr. Vertigo e ao regresso a Wichita onde volta a encontrar Mrs. Witherspoon.
Em Mr. Vertigo, Auster convida-nos a voar al茅m das fronteiras da realidade, onde a 煤nica queda 茅 a da pr贸pria alma, livre para desbravar os c茅us da imagina莽茫o.
脡 a铆 que a coisa come莽a 鈥� tudo o mais vem por acr茅scimo. Temos de nos deixar evaporar. Temos de deixar que os nossos m煤sculos amole莽am, temos de respirar at茅 sentirmos a nossa alma a escoar-se de n贸s, e, depois, 茅 s贸 fechar os olhos. 脡 assim que se faz. O vazio dentro do nosso corpo torna-se mais leve do que o ar 脿 nossa volta. A pouco e pouco, come莽amos a pesar menos do que nada. Fechamos os olhos; estendemos os bra莽os; deixamo-nos evaporar. E ent茫o, a pouco e pouco, erguemo-nos do ch茫o. Assim.
Hmmm. Three Paul Auster books under my belt and all three I have awarded 3 stars. I had higher hopes for this one. In fact I would go so far to say I loved the first third of the book. 'Tis a page-turning romp all about Walt, a poorly orphan, who is plucked from his destiny to fulfil another鈥檚, that of Master Yehudi. For the Master has been searching all his life for the one boy he could teach to fly.
A punishing, almost sadistic training schedule begins, for the Master must break Walt in order to start him all over again. All good so far. The house in which the Master lives, profit from his days of gambling, is a nowhere-place on the bleak prairies of Kansas. The other inhabitants are Mother Sue (Sioux) and Aesop, a crippled Ethiopian taught to be a terribly proper genius in the English tradition.
Not long after this the story starts to lose its way for me. There were kind-of unexpected premature deaths. There was a boy who could fly. An uncle eager for this golden goose, that plotted revenge and turned up in kind-of unexpected moments. It was all kind-of unexpected. It felt, to me, that the author did not know where to go.
But it was the part with Walt as an adult running his own business that I found yawnsome and pointless. The story of him and his favourite baseball player was鈥� God, it was terrible. 鈥榁ertigo鈥�? The latter third of the book is more like 鈥楽erpigo.鈥�
I listened to more than half of this and could stand it no longer.
The audiobook narration by Kevin Pariseau is perfectly fine. I have no complaints whatsoever on this account. It is the book itself I had trouble with.
-It is about a boy who can fly. There is absolutely no way I can deal with the fantasy of this. -I detested the crude, vulgar language. Farts and defecating and continuous swearing. -The plot is simplistic. -The details of the time and setting are minimal. This is not historical fiction. You learn zero. -I feel nothing for any of the characters. -If there is humor, well I didn't see it.
I don't believe this book can possibly come to a meaningful conclusion. Yeah I could be wrong, but actually for me the passage through a book is more important than how it concludes.
I don't usually dump books, but this is an exception to the rule. Read it at your own risk.
SIORE E SIORI ...ecco a voi Walt,il bambino prodigio...
La storia 猫 avvincente e commovente, con molti colpi di scena, voli eccezionali e cadute dolorose e i personaggi straordinari, fuori dal comune: Esopo,il ragazzino nero, esile e deforme,dalla brillante intelligenza, l'amico-fratello; mamma Sioux,la donna mastodontica,di poche parole, dal sorriso-pi霉 -bello-del-mondo; mrs Whiterspoon, la rossa vulcanica, intraprendente e sensuale; il Maestro Yehudi ,uomo misterioso, carismatico, sagace e saggio, a volte crudele, che insegna al protagonista la meravigliosa arte di volare e Walt, il bambino volante... scaltro, vivace, tenace ,capace di arrivare in alto - come nessun altro - ma soprattutto di rialzarsi da tutte le cadute. Sempre . E poi c'猫 la Chicago degli anni 30, gangster, biscazzieri, soldi, fughe , giocatori di baseball , pistole, incontri inaspettati
PS: e c'猫 un regalo che...fa la differenza, ad un certo punto del libro,anzi no, non 猫 il regalo,猫 il biglietto ( una frase,una frase soltanto)
Mi sono commossa e non me l'aspettavo proprio. 脠 vero che si trattava del mio secondo Auster e sembrava una battaglia gi脿 vinta in partenza, ma avevo scelto questo titolo completamente alla cieca. E invece 猫 stato una rivelazione. Walter Rawley, anche noto come il Bambino Prodigio e poi Mr Vertigo, attraversa un cinquantennio di storia americana e si conquista tutto il nostro affetto. Ci porta con s茅 in un folle viaggio tra le metropoli e i deserti degli Stati Uniti, tra spettacoli di levitazione, storie di gangster, partite di baseball e abbaglianti locali notturni, sempre con la sua lingua lunga e la testa piena di sogni. La scrittura di Auster come sempre 猫 avvolgente, appassionata, a tratti irriverente e crea dipendenza. Proprio per questo motivo non so quale santo ringraziare per la produzione letteraria di questo scrittore che (per fortuna) mi terr脿 impegnata per un bel po' di tempo.
I was drawn to read this book because of my fondness for the outstanding writing skills of the author. However, I must say that this novel doesn't quite live up to the other Auster novels I have read. Perhaps it is the premise of the novel: a boy who (literally) learns to fly. This attempt to mix realism with magic realism does not work in my opinion. The story is well told and certainly held my interest, but the "believability" factor left me cold. Auster took a risk in writing outside of his usual genre (novels that, in one way or other, resemble the trajectory of his own life). However, sometimes it's best to stick closely to what one does well. Auster is a master of the semi-autobiographical novel, and I hope he continues to pursue that path.
Bildi臒im bir 艧ey varsa o da kar艧谋l谋臒谋n谋 vermeden bir 艧ey alamayaca臒谋n谋zd谋r. 陌stedi臒iniz 艧ey ne kadar b眉y眉kse kar艧谋l谋臒谋nda 枚demeniz gereken bedel de o kadar b眉y眉k olur.
Kitap 1920鈥檒erin Amerika鈥檚谋nda ge莽iyor. Anlat谋lanlar谋n bir k谋sm谋 rahats谋zl谋k verici olsa da hikaye ilk etapta merak duygusunu fazlas谋yla koruyor. Bir 莽ocu臒un evrilmesini uzun uzad谋ya okuyorsunuz. 陌kinci b枚l眉mde ve devam谋nda kitab谋n uzat谋lm谋艧 hissi vermesi ilgiyi kaybetmenize neden oluyor. Al谋艧谋k oldu臒um bir Auster tarz谋 olsa da, net bir tav谋r g枚rememek yorucu geldi.