Friday, March 11, 2011

Baking Supply In Tokyo

More depacio, slower

Paul Auster:
Sunset Park
Paul Auster has too many blunders lately in its list of novels. Their level, except for isolated cases, takes years to fall. May be due to lack of ideas, or you may remove the novels with too little time between them. Just a year earlier and already published have here is, who left for last Christmas, for that to take advantage of the pull consumer. If you want Auster is making money, for me it, but if you want to keep your loyal readers, who became engaged to him before he became famous in Spain with the Prince of Asturias Award, the writer takes quite Auster oil. The book takes us a good start, but it is decaffeinated alarmingly as the chapters progress. The answer to the riddle is simple: no story to tell. Auster does as it weaves a plot but it really is a cloth woven of little, cheap cloth, with characters that look like a caricature of his best, trying to convey that feeling of loneliness and isolation, and sometimes (rarely) get it, of course, because Auster , like others, can not write bad even if you like, and his prose is entertaining, livable, exciting at times. But no. Argument fails because there is no argument, no big revelations, no changes, no surprises. And the surprise and detail are the salt of fiction. One reads because Auster Auster writes well, nothing else. Maybe he has accustomed us wrong and now we ask too much, to continue with more than sixty years in the same good form and with the same enthusiasm that when he was thirty and no one listened and no one was paying attention, and he had to strive to do my best to be fixed in his work. Now, Auster lives resting on their laurels, and publishes books like this, you do not do any favors, except, of course, the beefing up their bank accounts. The truth is that for which the author takes a historical novel for readers of literary mush better than the money they are bagging this man was a genius. And it might become so again. You still reel. That we have no doubt. Only more slowly, Mr. Auster, slower. We prefer to wait five years and that his next book falls short of legend.

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