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Japanese authors never cease to amaze me. Not only do their novels carry a distinctly unique atmosphere, but they have this gift for crafting genuinely original stories. This one's no exception. The character development here is something else—unexpected, mathematical, deeply human.
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The thing with Paul Auster: even when he's not at his absolute best, he's still damn good. That's what separates the great writers from the rest. This latest might not shine quite as bright as his earlier work, but I'm still drawn to that signature atmosphere of his—melancholic Brooklyn, damaged characters searching for something.
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It all started years back when a young mom who loved books—mine—decided to teach her little girl—me—how to read using a manual I never forgot: Rémi et Colette. That was my first book. The beginning of everything. From there, the obsession only grew stronger.
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