WIR: The New York Stories by Paul Auster


What the fuck did I just read? No really Paul Auster what in the post modern fuck did I just read. I have half a mind to head over to Brookyln Heights to ask him but I’d get distracted by all the houses real people can’t afford to live in. Then I’d get sad and melancholy ok maybe I kind of get where you’re coming from but you’re still a bastard.


If you hadn’t caught on from my tone I didn’t enjoy this book. I also couldn’t stop reading it. It was like the author knew when I was getting close to bailing and like an abusive partner he’d choose just that moment to write a sentence so brilliant I’d have to keep going in hopes of more like it. And really some of the prose here is utter genius but it doesn’t make up for the pages of pointless male musings you have to slog through to reach it.

The second story I had figured out pretty early on and I was like oh that’s a cool premise, not really much to it. Then it went on for another like 60 pages. That’s half a comic book trade people. I could have read most of a middle grade novel and felt touched and hopefull about life but no I got stuck with an early edition guy for your Mfa Twitter. Sigh.

Don’t even get me started on the sex scenes. I’m a master of literary sex scenes and after that third story I think I need some time alone with a large bottle of whiskey. I know none of it was meant to be hot but like was it supposed to be believable? Is that where we are supposed to draw the unreliable narrator card for the first time? I can see how whole essays could be written in defense of either side of that one but alas I am no longer in college and have to waste my time on other silly things that don’t make me feel nearly as accomplished but certainly pay more.

Auster, I shake my literary fist at you and go back to reading in a slightly more huffing manner.


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