The article in this weekend's paper reminded me of my former love for Auster's work. I don't dislike his writing, it's just that I feel I have moved on. Mind you, I did read Siri Hustvedt's first novel lately, and I very much enjoyed it (maybe a little popular for some tastes).
I once had a wonderful dream about the two of them (they are married). They had thrown a party at their house, and I was on the balcony talking to Hustvedt. Since this was before I'd read any of her books, I actually wanted to speak to Auster. It was a tricky situation: I remember feeling so honoured to be speaking to a well-known writer, yet feeling anguished and desperate about making it across the crowded room to speak to my hero.
And so the surrealists are refuted: even etiquette has a place in the illogical world of dreams.
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