[.ca] The Book of Illusions: A Novel (ISBN 0805054081)

From Amazon.com:
Vermont professor David Zimmer is a broken man. The protagonist of Paul Auster's 10th novel, The Book of Illusions, hits a period in which life seemed to be working aggressively against him. After his wife and sons are killed in an airplane crash, Zimmer becomes an alcoholic recluse, fond of emptying his bottle of sleeping pills into his palm, contemplating his next move. But one night, while watching a television documentary, Zimmer's attention is caught by the silent-film comedian Hector Mann, who had disappeared without a trace in 1929 and who was considered long-dead. Soon, Zimmer begins work on a book about Mann's newly discovered films (copies of which had been sent, anonymously, to film archives around the world). The spirit of Hector Mann keeps David Zimmer alive for a year. When a letter arrives from someone claiming to be Hector Mann's wife, announcing that Mann had read Zimmer's book and would like to meet him, it is as if fate has tossed Zimmer from one hand to the other: from grief and loss to desire and confusion. Although film images are technically "illusions," this deft and layered novel is not so much about conscious illusion or trickery as about the traces we leave behind us: words, images, memories. Children are one obvious trace, but in this book, they are not allowed to carry their parents forward. They die early: Hector Mann losing his 3-year-old son to a bee sting just as David Zimmer has lost his two sons in the crash. The second half of The Book of Illusions is given over to a love affair, and to Zimmer's attempt to save something of Hector Mann, and of the others he has loved. In the end, what really survives of us on earth--what flickering immortality we are permitted--is left to the reader to surmise. --Regina Marler

You'll have to fight to finish it.:
This had to be one of the most plodding overwritten books I've ever been unfortunate enough to read. Huge and I mean HUGE passages go off on tangents and it basically leaves you wanting to tear your eyes out. Then, after suffering through all the blah, blah, blah and toughing out massive meaningless passages the book ends completely abruptly as if the author had no idea how to end his story. In fact, the ending was nothing short of a major disappointment with absolutely no reward whatsoever. Aside from a tiny bit of brilliant imagery here and there this book is pure tedium and a must miss.

Dancing about architecture - a decent read with a few holes:
There were some really gripping bits of this novel. The characters are consitently, coherently drawn, it does a good job slipping back and forth between time and place, and it manages to create suspense and drama from a fairly understated story line. I particularly like the physicality of the descriptions. I really got a sense for what nealry all the characters looked and sounded like. And they all stayed in character - there weren't departures from character to scoot the plot along. However, it fell short it two fairly glaring areas for me. 1) The romance elements are barely plausible. They struck me as middle-school melodramatic. People sort of pop from indifference into world-shattering love, and stay in puppy-dog devotion until circumstances tear them apart. 2) The attempt to discribe brilliant cinema fell so far short as to be almost comic in its attempt. Writing about visual art is really hard to do, and I respect the ambition of giving it a go here. Any description, even a good one, leaves you with a pretty thin shadow of the real thing, so no fault of Auster's that this is short of compelling. But this particular part of the book goes past the forgivable and into the groan-out-loud bad. Hard to say more without a spoiler here, but let me just say that I'm very glad that Auster is writer and not a film maker. This was at the low end of a 4 star read for me. Lose the pretention, make the characters as real in their relations to each other as they are in their thoughts and actions, and leave brilliant films to the imagination, and it would have been a really notable read. As it is, its a solidly crafted, middle of the road, enjoyable but forgettable book.

Another breathtaking piece of fiction by Auster:
Auster's book is a modern fairy tale of troubled lives searching for a purpose to continue living in a world of loneliness, regret and self pitty. The characters are revealed patiently and with immense care so the reader understands them slowly and starts living with them. This haunting, exotic and mysterious story of love is something you will not forget for a long time.

Three and a half stars. Kind of plodding.:
I find Auster's ideas interesting, but his execution plods a litle. I didn't find this book to be brilliant, but it was capably done, a little melodramatic in content, but I think authors are all killing themselves to sell books these days. I think the reader is well advised to consider this book in that light: as a product. Like a suspense movie without the suspense, for example. It's nothing particularly special or enlightening, but if you are looking for something interesting to read, it will do. It won't disappoint unless you are looking for something to transform your life or knock your socks off. For transformation, read Nabokov. For socks-offing, read Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake.

Ends abrupt-- Auster gave up. Good nonetheless:
I really got into the character building Auster did. The book moved smoothly and creatively. The reader at no point was lost in what Auster was working with. The suspense, characterization, and format was amazing-- once of the best... until the last 50 pages. It seemed that either Auster did not want to make the book super long so he wrapped it up really quickly or he didn't know how to end the book. Because the book is so smooth through the transitions of time and the progession of time, the abrupt end and wrap up seemed out of place for me. It seems displaced in comparison to the rest of the book. I was thoroughly disappointed with the ending, everything else was absolutely amazing.