Leafing through it, I'm already being pulled in. It's a memoir, which Auster began writing in January, 2011, a thirty-years-later follow-up of sorts to The Invention of Solitude. Its style is unusual and beautiful, in its sustained use of an intimate second person narration, its constant seamless movement between past and present, and its focus on the body as being no less important than the mind or the soul as a vehicle for sensation and memory.
From Publishers Weekly:
There is no set chronology; time and place bleed from one year to another, between childhood and adulthood. His mother’s death in May 2002 is one of the most deeply resonant sections, drawing on childhood memories of her as a Cub Scout den mother—though she’d entered the “Land of Work”—along with her slow decline after the death of her second husband, made all the more painful as Auster relays it in retrospect, after the reader knows his mother is dead. This is the exquisitely wrought catalogue of a man’s history through his body, a body that has felt pain and pleasure because “[the] body always knows what the mind doesn’t know".
Paul Auster is the celebrated author of The New York Trilogy, Sunset Park, The Book of Illusions, and Leviathan, among a slew of other works. Like many of his protagonists, he lives in Brooklyn, New York.