Traversing Brooklyn With Paul Auster in Brooklyn Follies
I have to admit having read Paul Auster only once before this year.
So when I picked up The Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago, I was not sure what to expect, or where the book might take me.
On reading the first page I thought it might be a long drawn out exposition about death and dying in smashing Brooklyn-you know, where the protagonist hangs out in the Cosmic Diner and muses about his corned beef hash, or where he marches down 4th Avenue looking to punch out his dry-cleaner-but that's not what happens.
As with Updike, it's nice to read something about what it means to be human (which means to, among other things, have sex, grow old and finally, to die) over the course of three hundred pages.
Auster leads us into the narrative about the "old" man who moves to Park Slope, Brooklyn after his marriage falls apart, only to change direction and chart a course into the fascinating, if depressing, proclivities of the narrator, his nephew and a rather devious bookstore owner who, having served hard time in prison, is still plotting to make his fortune (ethics be damned).
Brooklyn is very much a character here, which makes this a wonderful read if you've ever lived there, and something of a magical place (and still wonderful), if you have not.
It's nice to see life and death unfold, though if I say any more about death, I might give things away.
But let me also say that as is the case with Updike, this is very much an American novel in that introspection and personal narratives win out over the greater discourse(s) of the neighborhoods and cities.
Yet, one gets a real sense of Brooklyn, revealing that Auster, while not an anthropologist, does in fact seek to bring alive his borough.
At any rate, I suppose this is a novel one might find on the shelf of the urbane Manhattanite, who is just as likely to have a four-year degree as they are to have Updike's books.
But I reckon it would do as a read for Midwest reader as well, since it deals rather fondly with the universality of getting older.
Where big sellers might suffice with indicating events and creating a world of flammable characters, Auster treats his reader to light feasts of language that do not overload your brain.
One could easily read The Brooklyn Follies over the course of two or three settings.
So when I picked up The Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago, I was not sure what to expect, or where the book might take me.
On reading the first page I thought it might be a long drawn out exposition about death and dying in smashing Brooklyn-you know, where the protagonist hangs out in the Cosmic Diner and muses about his corned beef hash, or where he marches down 4th Avenue looking to punch out his dry-cleaner-but that's not what happens.
As with Updike, it's nice to read something about what it means to be human (which means to, among other things, have sex, grow old and finally, to die) over the course of three hundred pages.
Auster leads us into the narrative about the "old" man who moves to Park Slope, Brooklyn after his marriage falls apart, only to change direction and chart a course into the fascinating, if depressing, proclivities of the narrator, his nephew and a rather devious bookstore owner who, having served hard time in prison, is still plotting to make his fortune (ethics be damned).
Brooklyn is very much a character here, which makes this a wonderful read if you've ever lived there, and something of a magical place (and still wonderful), if you have not.
It's nice to see life and death unfold, though if I say any more about death, I might give things away.
But let me also say that as is the case with Updike, this is very much an American novel in that introspection and personal narratives win out over the greater discourse(s) of the neighborhoods and cities.
Yet, one gets a real sense of Brooklyn, revealing that Auster, while not an anthropologist, does in fact seek to bring alive his borough.
At any rate, I suppose this is a novel one might find on the shelf of the urbane Manhattanite, who is just as likely to have a four-year degree as they are to have Updike's books.
But I reckon it would do as a read for Midwest reader as well, since it deals rather fondly with the universality of getting older.
Where big sellers might suffice with indicating events and creating a world of flammable characters, Auster treats his reader to light feasts of language that do not overload your brain.
One could easily read The Brooklyn Follies over the course of two or three settings.