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2.0 out of 5 stars
Gassy, precious, arrogant, and ultimately merely deflated, Jul 6 2004
A novel about a NYC loft-type writer-guy writing a novel about a NYC writer-gal writing a novel about a guy who can see into the future. Please. It had much promise, too---especially his tale about a man deserting his old life to forge an anonymous one in a new, non- New York city (yes, Virginia, they exist), who, by a circuitous and well-tried route via An Old Black Cab Driver, ends up locking himself in a....well, I won't give it away. It's one of the few bright spots of the book. I don't think Mr. Auster actually meant to be so tired and shopworn. I just don't think that some writers realise that not everyone is enthralled with the NYC Writer-As-Mage image. Of course words have meaning. Of course they have power. In the right hands, they transcend everything human. Not so here. The prose is weirdly stilted and empty of all subtlety. The story meanders around nine days of disjointed happenings, with the writer seeming to shout periodically, "This is Important!" Nope. It's not. Other writers have tackled the city as character, and the writer as shamen---the lilting, dreamlike "Mother London" of Michael Moorcock comes to mind. This weird offering is either too subtle--or too silly---for my poor sensibilities and unfortunately, I don't care enough about the characters to discern which it is.
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