Epic high fantasy novel series lose their meaning after awhile. It all seems too escapist and/or redundant. The characters are predictably good and reliable and capable of easily overcoming their inner conflicts as well as their conflicts with others. If a character wants to take some heavily guarded ship hostage, you know it will work out and no major characters will lose their lives. Or if faux major characters are set up as a sacrifice during a battel to give the appearance of sacrifice.
The New York Trilogy is a memorable series. Written in the style of a detective novel, the investigation eventually folds back onto itself, imploding in slow motion leaving even more questions than before the investigation began.
The Invention of Solitude has an interesting forward that analyzes the meaning behind Paul Auster’s writing which has a definite existentialist flavor in modern America. The isolation of people from one another in America is not a topic I read about very often. Perhaps it is too close to home. To think about it fails to entertain, fails to lead to any freedom either. The strange paradoxes of the existential view comes up in the forweword as well as they relate to Auster’s fictionalized Father. His Father is the father of many. A man who seems to lack introspection or self-awareness, or, if he does, he conceals it almost too well from those around him. HIs life is a series of empty routines to blankly past the time until the sweet release of death. I suspect though, these criticisms may soften as the investigation into the father’s true nature is unveiled. But, at the same time, new knowledge will lead to new questions, quesitons Auster probably will not answer for the reader.
Father’s who strive to seperate themselves from their sons emotionally while fuflilling their duties as a father figure is an interesting issue the forward discusses as well. A man who never genuinely shows any interest in his son, who prefers to avoid his son and live a solitary life amidst the masses in New York City. LIving alone among the many is an experience city dwellers can relate to. You can live your whole life in New York City just going to work to perpetuate an endless cycle of pointlessly passing the time alone long enough to fade finally like a phantom. Americans with their “what you see is what you get” cultural quality seem to lead eventually to crisis after crisis, but such breakdowns are carefully hidden away to prevent anyone from knowing your real self, if there even is such a thing in America. Being who you are is overlaid with endless noise, static, and convolution which the individual uses to cope with the pain of being unable to even ask who am I? What am I? Why am I here? What is the purpose and meaning of my life? Those questions, ironically, may lead to greater truths about your life, but will also make life more difficult. Its easier just to go through the routines set out for us in modern Americans society and to do anything to forget about our inner world, and, even if we are conscisou, to hide it from others until some break down leads invariably to the necessity to do something, anything to redeem the self from itself.