weblogs : azul : timbuktu

I read Timbuktu, by Paul Auster.

I had previously read his New York Trilogy —Camilo Domínguez bought me a copy when we met in San Francisco— but I didn't like it very much. I thought it was OK but I had greater expectations.

I found my self in a small and charming bookstore in Rome's Campo de' Fiori, in front of Giordano Bruno's statue, looking for books in Spanish or English to read during our relaxing stay in Capri. I had just a few minutes before I had to rush to Piazza Navona to meet Franz Campos and company, into whom I had randomly ran while visiting Rome's ruins. The selection of books in English and Spanish was very limited, pretty much everything was in Italian. I decided to give Auster another chance —I think Camilo said he was fond of him— and, along with Our Friends from Frolix 8 and The H-Bomb Girl, I picked his Timbuktu.

The next day I got back to the hotel rather early; it was raining in Rome. Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to read it that evening.

I liked it. It reminds me a bit of Vonnegut's pessimism and irony, of which his Hocus Pocus may be the finest example. Similarly to how the modern gothic movement finds beauty in topics such as sadness and death, so these novels find the best qualities in the least expected moments and characters (but that's about as far as the parallel between these books and the gothic movement can be taken, in my opinion). A light reading would characterize these books —and also, perhaps, The Fan Man— as depressing and boring. I think that misses the point. There's a lot more to them.

So, while not one of my all time favorites, I enjoyed the story, which I found very creative. I recommend it. Go give it a read.

Loading... Discussion (1)