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Back when I was an undergraduate in college (not that I ever did any graduate work, but I'm about to make fun of myself, and making fun of 'undergraduates' is a literary tradition in these parts) I got a total boner* for structuralism. And then post-structuralism. I was dating Sarah and she was like, 'Hey, you like this soulless pomo bullshit, you should read this book I just read and didn't like, the New York Trilogy,' I was all, sweet, empty soulless pomo bullshit! And read it, and didn't really like it much, and realized that- as we learned from Alain Robbe-Grillet- fiction rooted in structuralist or post-structuralist theory is way more fun to talk about than it is to read.

So anyway, I was all, fuck Paul Auster, that guy writes boring experimental novels that don't make me have any feelings. Y'know, judging his twenty or so books on the basis of one early work. And then person after person who I respected- and probably more relevantly, who could give a fuck about Roland Barthes- were like, 'oh man, that Paul Auster book rules, it's told from the perspective of a dog' or 'dude the Brooklyn Follies is the best book I've ever read' or 'man I get so hopeless when I read Paul Auster.'

Which always perks up my jaded ears. Hopeless? Yeah?

So a proof of his new book came into the store, it was short, and I said, what the fuck. Why not. And it was good! Turns out I've been an asshole the whole time, which I love to find out. I think it'd be hard to make a five-star book out of a hundred and eighty pages, but that's just me- this book worked really well. It approached metafiction but never got to the heights of plasticity and masturbation that that word implies to me- it was kind of self-referential, but only insofar as the protagonist was referring to himself for himself. Or whatever. The point is, three quarters of the way through- um, spoiler- the Auster just kind of abandons the whole metafiction conceit and tells a story.

Which, I mean, let's metaphorize- are we talking about metafictionalyzing as a way to avoid telling direct emotional truths? And is this book then kind of a refutation of the experimentalism of the New York Trilogy? Are you saying, Paul Auster, that I was right not to like your signature work much? Or is this just a bunch more postmodern redirection and shuffling of signs?

Either way, as a story, this works on its own, and in the context of what I know of Auster's work (which like I said isn't much) it's pretty friggin interesting. So yes! It felt like there wasn't quite enough novel to give it five stars, but it's definitely worth four.








*How in love with the phrase 'total boner' am I lately? Jesus, I feel like I use it once or twice in every review, like back when I started every single one with 'maaaaaaaan...'