This is another text that we cannot help recommending: The book of illusions, by Paul Auster. Full of obsession and loss; and hopes. The destructibility of Art is at its core. What remains of it, and for whom? What is its true purpose? Should it necessarily be shared? Could it just be something for its creator´s exclusive use, a masturbatory thing?
Some ten years ago, I started Leviathan, but I dropped it. As a consequence, I would not try another Auster in a full decade. But after devouring this Book of Illusions about one year ago, it was five Austers in a row I swallowed up.
Book of illusions, 2002. Paul Auster
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