Paul Auster - The New York Trilogy

If anything, one of the most complex books you'll ever read, and something any Murakami fan should read, for, in the words of a respected Murakami fanclub elder, "more Murakami than the man himself."

Paul Auster enjoys transcending the theme of metafiction, frequently slipping himself into his work; that gives this trilogy (each novella numbering a good hundred pages) a rather personal, mystical feel.

The first novella, City of Glass is a detective story turned psychoromp, where the hunted shifts from without the author to within. Gradually, as Stillman himself discovers that he is searching for a person who actually does not exist except in his imagination. Slowly, as he descends into madness, layers of identity and reality are examined, as Paul Auster the writer of the novel; "the author" who reports the events as reality; "Paul Auster the writer", a character in the story; and "Paul Auster the detective", who may or may not exist in the novel.

The second novella, Ghosts, is about a private eye called Blue who is investigating a man named Black for a client named White. Black and White turn out to be the same person, a writer who is writing a story about Blue watching him.

Finally, The Locked Room is the story of a writer who lacks the creativity to produce fiction. Fanshawe, his childhood friend has produced creative work, and when he disappears the writer publishes his work and replaces him in his family. While trying to deal with their relationship, he discovers his creative gift, and it emerges that he is the author of the three stories of the trilogy.

Eventually, in "The Locked Room", the three tales are tied together in a hauntingly perfect manner; in the first two tales, Paul Auster as author explores the transcending of Paul Auster as character, both in eponymous fashion, and while adopting generic colour names; in the third, the main question of the three novels finally comes to a head - Who ACTUALLY narrates these three novels?

And with that thought gently brushing the tip of the reader's consciousness, Auster leaves the reader grappling with issues of his own identity.

This is deemed worthy to be termed a classic of postmodernism; I give it a 9 out of 10.