Friday 3 May 2024
Paul Auster, my newspaper tells me, died yesterday. So it must be true. But almost everything I know about the American author is shrouded in doubt.
I am almost sure I read his masterpiece the New York trilogy. I look, but can’t find it in the forest of my bookshelves. I only remember me as reader trying to make sense of three puzzling stories in which someone who appears to be a detective also tries to make sense of three puzzling stories.
What I did find was another book by Paul Auster entitled the invention of solitude. I take it from the shelves. This paperback edition tells me it was first published in 2012. It is dusty but giving off clues that it has never been opened and read.
I look inside. I do not recognise what I am reading. I have not read a single word before ...
