Book review

Paul Auster’s Winter Journal

As we read the first few pages of Winter Journal, we fear that it’s going to be yet another tiresome writer’s autobiography. Is he going to put us to sleep with the syndrome of the white page, procrastinations about writing, or his search for inspiration ?

Then comes the weird choice of “you” instead of “I” or “me”. This is an autobiography in the second person singular ! I gave up after a few pages, then tried to download something else on my Kindle, but there was no network. So, I was stuck, and went back to reading Winter Journal. I must admit : you get used to it. There : I said “you” : must be catching. 

The life of a writer is not significantly different from that of millions of men who have car accidents, meet a wonderful woman, cope with the death of those they love and mourn the fact that they are getting old. The difference is in the writing, the expressing of emotions, and the poetic atmosphere of the surroundings. It all boils down to the worn-out admission that the subject matter does not matter : only the way it’s dealt with ; and when it’s done with talent, it becomes interesting, moving and pleasurable. Winter Journal is thus saved from what I had feared (from the opening pages) would be a navel-scratching, hair-splitting, drawn out lament.