Winding, forking, converging, eddies, whirlpools these are just a few adjectives I use to describe Auster’s (The Book of Illusions). Like a long and winding river, it has a beginning a route of passage a destiny, and it has a way of beckoning the reader forward. As the reader becomes relaxed floating upon slow moving current, like a river, the reader suddenly gets funneled into a fast moving flow of twists and turns and jagged rocks. Paul Auster’s novel provides lots secrets dark places you don’t ever want to experience. His novel has a way of calling those souls the characters to their meeting place a place of providence sometimes a place of no return.
Though fiction it is, however, the author displays common threads that weave in and out and through the reality of what it’s like being man being woman. Lying awake in the dark accompanied by the hounds those things attached to memories the ones that dominate the ones that create the construction of what reality is to become. Auster demonstrates through human tragedy through raw passion and love the weakness as well as the greatness of what it is the beating heart.
Paul Auster provides the reader examples of realism. For indeed, depression and hopelessness does exist; it does touch multitudes. However, there is hope and as long as a person falls under its shadow the sun has a way of rising again and again.
River begins ends
Hands sift soil dirt under the nails
Firmly planted rows sprout, shoot, reach
Everything under the sun has a scheduled way of life
Like River beginning ending only to discover no straight lines but circles that spiral to the other side
Auster leaves the reader with an intriguing muse. There is after all hope.
Have you ever really thought about hope?
Where did it come from?
Did hope stumble out of some primitive cave?
Did it sprout in some lost garden?
I don’t know
But, the fact remains, hope continues
You can tell those people who have it
Against all odds, they persevere like resilient lines of DNA