Winter Journal balances on the cusp of being enjoyable or over-the-top. The lush description balanced by the focus on self: to some extent expected, but no mention of his kids? Either he's too self-centred, or the artifice of the work shows through too much.
Still the description of the 20 places he's lived in - a sense place even when moving about. But, a work about a life without a centre - the sense of a man writing to try and find sense - a Godless man can be a sad sight. Auster has nothing to rest on - perhaps the end of the book with find him something.
Auster's life as a writer - made the most of limited material - bit of a Dessaix type? Another I must read.
Leviathan hit me in the guts when I read it 20-odd years ago - I wonder how it would affect me now.
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