A young Belorussian Jew heads west in search of a better life, a language mix-up results in the formation of a wholly new name and identity, and a family tree pulls up its roots, exchanging an Old World existence for a New World one. It’s left up to the reader to work out which bits carry a hint of autobiography and which are purely fictional, but even the most scant bit of research shows us that Paul’s life is reflected on more than a few of the book’s 866 pages.Ĥ 3 2 1 begins, as many grand American tales do, with a story of immigrant transience. And, of course, in there somewhere, fluttering between realities like an extra-dimensional moth, is Paul himself. Some flourish, some flounder, others are pruned cruelly in their prime. What begins with a single stem quickly diverges into four distinct tendrils, which curve over and over one another on their way to separate conclusions. “Was” or “wasn’t”, “is” or “isn’t” – it doesn’t matter really, because 4 3 2 1 is not one novel, but four. Or maybe it was maybe this is the book Paul Auster always wanted to write. Paul Auster – a writer known for brevity and concision, at least most of the time – re-emerges with his first novel in seven years and presents us with this a doorstop wedge of a tome which intimidates with its physicality before the reader has even opened the cover. 4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster / Henry Holt and Co.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |