The Book of Illusions (2002)

An interesting book that probably would make a better film (since half of the book describes old films). I'd be curious to see this made, but I doubt it will happen. I don't really like Auster, but found myself enjoying this book. And my cousin who doesn't read novels LOVES Auster. I guess it's just not my thing. ( )

This is a brutally sad novel about redemption and confrontation of guilt. Not a wonderfully happy topic, but the themes do well in Auster's story, which is very refreshing and creative. Not his best work but certainly an engrossing one. ( )

Professor David Zimmer's wife and two sons have died in a plane crash and he is at loose ends, slowly drinking himself to death, when he sees a clip from one of Hector Mann's silent films on a TV retrospective show. It makes him laugh. He embarks on a project to see all of Mann's films and write a book about them. Mann disappeared in the 1920's and no one has heard from him since. When David's book is published, he receives a mysterious letter that may shed some light on Hector's disappearance.
David is an elegantly realized character with a dynamic arc throughout. I found his story, and that of Mann, rather fascinating. However, there were a few things that didn't work for me. First of all, there are no quotation marks around any of the dialogue. This becomes very confusing, particularly when a character's thought or a small sentence about the action is inserted between lines of dialogue and it is not readily apparent who is speaking. Second, David describes several of Hector's films all the way through. While this is generally pretty well done, with a lot of detail, it is difficult to picture all of these scenes and becomes kind of a slog. Third, I felt as though I had invested quite a lot into both David and Hector, and was very disappointed by the ending. I won't spoil it for you, but if you're a fan of "they all lived happily ever after" you will definitely not be pleased. ( )

An academic grieving for his wife and children finds distraction in writing a book about a minor silent movie actor, Hector Mann, who disappeared mysteriously in 1929. One day, he receives a letter from someone claiming to be Hector's wife saying that Hector is still alive, and would like to meet him. For the most part I thought this was excellent, brilliantly written and intriguing, a smart book that also managed to be a really compelling mystery. I was slightly disappointed by the ending, not because it was bad or inappropriate, but because it didn't quite have the kick that could have made this a truly brilliant or even great book. Still very, very good though. ( )

BkC 3) Sorry I read it, and what a slog.

Another one where I stand by my one-liner. Ye gods and little fishes, what a snore!

The Book Report: Protagonist loses family, isolates self from world to plumb solipsistic depths of grief and depression, discovers obsessive interest in an artist now of no great interest, sets out to rediscover and rehabilitate said artist, succeeds, and through a miracle of identification with the vanished artist's sufferings which mirror his own, protagonist resumes living in the real world again.

My Review: Does that sound familiar? It ought to...it's also the plot of the over-praised and underwhelming "New York Trilogy." Every writer, every artist, rides their hobbyhorses. Nothing new there. The question is, do you want to go along for the ride? In Auster's case, I do not.

But why not? Because I experienced a lot lot lot of grieving very early in life, when the AIDS epidemic was at its height. I lost every gay friend I'd made. I volunteered as a helper in the hospital...just showed up and did stuff, no training, no pay, and lots of nurses and porters would teach me what to do so they wouldn't risk getting the disease.

I held a lot of hands as men died. I saw a few mothers come to their sons' bedsides to excoriate them one last time for being queer and so embarrassing the church, the family, god. I had no idea what to say to their terrified faces as they died at 23...27...31.

But I fuckin' got up every morning and I went and DID SOMETHING.

I have ZERO tolerance for these a-holes who think their teensy little selves are so important that their pain is all that matters in the world. SHUT THE FUCK UP and get out of your own asshole and DO SOMETHING.

Okay, unsympathetic much? Yes. I lost the love of my life to AIDS in 1992. He died at 35. I do not want to hear crap from anyone about depression 'cause I been there too, and didn't treat it like it was All Important. I went to the doctor, I got help, I gave up some very unpleasant addictions, and I got on with life the whole time.

And I would give anything I have ever had to have my man back. Anything. I miss him fiercely even now, 20 years later.

So Mr. Auster can keep his wet-mouthed wet-eyed puling to his damn self. ( )