Paul Auster, Winter Journal
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An aging literary giant's meditations on life are a powerful reminder to take advantage of every day
Death does not become Paul Auster but, in this memoir, it consumes him. In January 2011, one month before his 64th birthday, the author started this journal. In a lucid, second-person narrative, Auster contemplates being and time, from the deaths of his parents to sex, marriage, the body and scars of unknown origin. A wide, entertaining swath of Winter Journal is devoted to a listing his previous addresses — a clever bit of biography. There are 21 in all, from East Orange, N.J., to extended stays in Paris, and Park Slope, Brooklyn, where he now lives with his wife, writer Suri Hustvedt.
A companion to Auster’s 1982 debut, The Invention of Solitude, which ruminates on the sudden death of his father and the breakup of his first marriage, Winter Journal is a desirable autumn listen: quiet, reflective and austere. He’s candid about his own mortality, from what he calls a “false heart attack” to almost killing his wife and daughter in a car accident (his last turn behind the wheel). While the memoir skips around in time, it’s grounded by Auster’s considered narration. If you’re a fan of his famed tales of New York (The Brooklyn Follies, The New York Trilogy), you’ll find comfort in his Brooklyn home on a snowy day.
This slim volume is a good reminder to take advantage of each day, while also taking a moment now and then to savor it all.
