Winter Journal, by Paul Auster

I always liked Paul Auster's books, ever since I read Leviathan many years ago. Some are better than others, and I wouldn't say he's one the best novelists I read, especially since I tend to forget his books not long after reading them, and to confuse the several plots. But he's still a very good writer, a great story-teller, and I feel especially identified with the way he looks at life, his recurrent themes of chance and serendipity and simultaneous strangeness and familiarity of life. So, I was curious to read his latest memoir. I liked it very much; it's a nostalgic reminiscence of his life and family and places where he has lived, sometimes sweet, sometimes sad, in some points somewhat repetitive, and with several very good stories masterly told as usual. His writing is excellent as usual, even if the choice of the second person becomes sometimes a little tiresome. Something also appeals to me: he's not an astounding writer (meaning the kind whose books change literature or the world) and he hasn't lived a particularly remarkable life, had never influence in politics, society or mores. So it's just an intelligent, sensitive and cultivated man reflecting and reminiscing on his life; somehow I like to think that if ever was to do the same, I would do it that way.