It was during hellish holiday, I was sleep-deprived, and yet there I was in a book store and there’s a certain comfort that comes from having a new book to read. On a “recommended by staff” shelf I found an interesting looking title with terms like “international bestselling”, “dazzling”, “gripping” and “genius” on the cover. I cheerfully left the book store with the book in tow.
It was perhaps the most disappointing book I’ve ever read.
The New York Trilogy
Absurdist and boring
I am not a stranger to the mystery/detective genre, having read most Agatha Christie novels, all of Sherlock Holmes, and in terms of more modern fare, even some Peter Temple and Stieg Larsson. However, while Paul Auster tells three different stories in this collection with a detective protagonist, I admit that none are like any I’ve read before.
I was primed to enjoy them, and I did even for a few pages, but as the pages turned into chapters, I found myself finding more and more excuses to put it down, and then only with reluctance picking it up again. While I didn’t like any of the main characters, I was willing to stick it out, because it held the promise of being good. Perhaps it was only when I reached the end that I’d discover why it was meant to be a work of genius?
Perhaps it was too genius for me. Although, if you’re the sort of person that enjoys stories where different characters have the same name, the author’s name is used in the story, or characters are named in a theme, then this is probably your sort of genius. It was clear that it was meant to be clever, but for me it never translated into enjoyable.
Finally, I felt a bit like one of the characters from the book myself, and wanting to destroy the pages so that no-one else would ever have to read them. I think I’ll just drop it into a charity bin instead. Someone else may want to use it to prop open a door, or something.