I thought I would read this sort of autobiography by one of my favourite fictioneers and so far I am pleased to have done so.
Pages 3 – 70
“To your mind, there was no greater injustice than to be doubted when you had told the truth, to be called a liar when you hadn’t lied, for there was no recourse then, no way to defend your integrity in the face of your accuser, and the frustration caused by such a moral injury would burn deep into you, continue to burn into you, becoming a fire that could never be extinguished.”
Paul Auster is almost exactly my age and these are his memories from ignited consciousness onward, in a simple language but one that sometimes entails very long sentences, like Proust’s, but, so far, easily digestible and inspiring and conveying a life’s early years perfectly, the same period as my own early period in the 1950s, except his 1950s were America and mine England. He a Jew, me not. But I feel a kinship, a link, a Jungian synchronicity. He covers such disparate matters as the Lone Ranger and Tonto, the Polio epidemic, aeroplanes, his heroes, his thoughts, his disappointments, his joys….
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE COMMENT STREAM BELOW AS AND WHEN I READ THIS BOOK: