Paul Auster, RIP

I am an avid reader, and Paul Auster was one of my favorite novelists during the 1980s and 1990s. He was a true New Yorker who lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, with his wife, an author. From everything I have read about Auster, he appears to be a complicated man.

His character development was always good, and I read many of these books with my siblings to discuss them. He wrote 34 books, and I read easily 10 of them. They sit on my bookshelf. Mr. Vertigo, The New York Trilogy, Baumgartner, The Brooklyn Follies, Vertigo, The Book of Illusions, Leviathan, The Invention of Solitude, The Music of Chance, and others. He might have been the Woody Allen of novels; he kept putting them out, and France loved him.

One of my favorites is his longest book, 4 3 2 1, which, at 866 pages, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. The book follows the life of a Jewish immigrant to his grandchild through four alternative lives, as you never know what life gives you. I might have to read this book again.