In the case of this diary, this peculiar phenomenology will be the record of those memories of the writer’s life soak in vivid sensory images, among which there will be no shortage of those associat with the harassment of time and its announcements – more noticeable with the ruthless arrival of the old age – of deterioration and fatigue that make their way towards extinction. Thus, from the opening lines, mitations about the transience of life, human destiny and its inexorable end have their place here; also about the painful awareness of one’s own vulnerability, of the body’s expiration, of the ailments that undermine the illusory sensation of eternal vitality with which we come to life: “You think it will never happen to you, it is impossible for it to happen to you.
Someone he directly observ
You, who are the only person in the world to whom these things will never happen, and then, one by one, they all begin to happen to you, just as they happen to anyone else. (p. 5); “(…) as you look in the mirror this morning you understand that all life is contingent, except for the only necessary fact that sooner or later it will come to an end.” (p. 9). «What puts pressure on you, what has always put business lead pressure on you: the outside, that is, the atmosphere; or rather, more specifically, your body in the middle of the air that surrounds you: the soles of your feet anchor in the ground, but the rest of you expos to the air, and that is where the story begins, in your body, where everything will end too.
In an exercise of astonishing sincerity.
From Koestler to Auster: good books, chance and the Internet The perspective from which this story is told is peculiar. In the second person, Auster describes and comments on the events of his life, referring to himself as if they were . As if he appear in a room of mirrors that reflect the images preserv in his memory, he scrutinizes with plastic minuteness the details that give them thickness. It is a story told, perhaps whisper, to itself; a kind of intimate Marketing List dialogue. Yes, a dialogue: not a monologue. He does not simply say , but, rather, says to himself. Descriptions, mitations, reflections, notes, comments, everything flows with a character who is the writer himself as the destination. The impression one gets is this: the narrator holds nothing back, everything is expos, with tenderness and also crudely, with impudence, without regard,
