At first glance Paul Auster's latest book looks as if it was written for publication after his death: it has the feel of a note to self about the ravages of time and the ageing process. It is almost as if he felt the need to record random recollections and bits of personal reflection in case his memory failed, as a kind of insurance against him forgetting who he is. But, from all accounts, Auster is a very healthy 65-year-old, and, thankfully, won't be in need of a personal reset button any time soon. He is well known and liked for books such as his debut, The Invention of Solitude, and his excellent novel The Brooklyn Follies, and addressing existential issues is nothing new for him. But this latest work is a step beyond mere musing on the nature of existence, or the nature of Auster, for that matter. Consolation can be found in the hope that this is not his last book. Surely there's better to come.
