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The Book of Illusions Paperback | Pages: 288 pages
Rating: 3.85 | 20945 Users | 1113 Reviews

Declare Of Books The Book of Illusions

Title:The Book of Illusions
Author:Paul Auster
Book Format:Paperback
Book Edition:Anniversary Edition
Pages:Pages: 288 pages
Published:July 13th 2003 by Picador Paper (first published 2002)
Categories:Fiction. Mystery. Literature. American. Contemporary

Relation Concering Books The Book of Illusions

Six months after losing his wife and two young sons, Vermont Professor David Zimmer spends his waking hours mired in a blur of alcoholic grief and self-pity. Then one night, he stumbles upon a clip from a lost film by silent comedian Hector Mann. His interest is piqued, and he soon finds himself embarking on a journey around the world to research a book on this mysterious figure, who vanished from sight back in 1929. When the book is published the following year, a letter turns up in Zimmer’s mailbox bearing a return address from a small town in New Mexico inviting him to meet Hector. Zimmer hesitates, until one night a strange woman appears on his doorstep and makes the decision for him, changing his life forever.

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Original Title: The Book of Illusions
ISBN: 0312990960 (ISBN13: 9780312990961)
Edition Language: English URL http://us.macmillan.com/thebookofillusions/PaulAuster
Characters: David Zimmer, Hector Mann
Setting: United States of America
Literary Awards: Borders Original Voices Award for Fiction (2002), International Dublin Literary Award Nominee (2004)

Rating Of Books The Book of Illusions
Ratings: 3.85 From 20945 Users | 1113 Reviews

Criticize Of Books The Book of Illusions
After having lost his wife and children in a plane crash, writer and teacher David Zimmer is on a path of self-destruction, drinking, behaving badly around people, rejecting any and all understanding and sympathy. But seeing a bit of silent film comedy on TV, he takes up the task of examining and writing a book about the work of one comedic genius from the 20s. Soon after the book is published the wife of the supposedly dead film-maker contacts Zimmer to ask if he might like to meet the man

Μου θύμισε εκείνη τη φράση που ειπώθηκε δια στόματος Μάθιου Μακόναχι στην πρώτη σεζόν του True Detective: "To realize that all your life, all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain, it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room, a dream about being a person". Μεγάλος Auster και πάλι.

Rating: one furious, disgusted star of however many stars there are in a galaxyI've never been fond of pompous writing, the kind that checks its look in the mirror of acclaim and piles on the self-satisfied smirking smugness that makes me want to torch all the MFA schools I can reach.My review, which I've moved to my blog, says that and more. Apparently the hoi polloi slithering in from the Internet's more sanctimonious quarters don't agree with me, therefore I must be wrong.

I read this more than ten years ago, so I cannot write a detailed review. But I can still remember the feeling of eagerly reading this book. And that's a good memory.

Paul Auster is always concerned with ethereal nature of identity and The Book of Illusions is no exception. Some reviewers have mocked his insistence on probing the depths of this subject and even suggested that sum of Illusions is less than its sometimes brilliant parts. I personally found this novel to be breathtaking in its scope, tone and emotional draw. While Illusions does tread on areas of personal identity and oblivion as first sketched in New York Trilogy, it moves into uncharted waters

Born Again and Longing for It All to EndIm guessing, but I dont think this book was ever seriously edited. It appears to have been written in a continuous stream, not of consciousness but of wherever Austens characters wanted to take him at the moment to extricate themselves from frequent literary culs-de-sac. And this includes an immense amount of random detail of relevance to neither the plot nor the characters. The result is a fair short story imitating a rather bad middling size novel.One

Rating: one furious, disgusted star of however many stars there are in a galaxyI've never been fond of pompous writing, the kind that checks its look in the mirror of acclaim and piles on the self-satisfied smirking smugness that makes me want to torch all the MFA schools I can reach.My review, which I've moved to my blog, says that and more. Apparently the hoi polloi slithering in from the Internet's more sanctimonious quarters don't agree with me, therefore I must be wrong.

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