At the age of 64 Auster decides to write a journal about his own physical history, as if his own body were writing a memoir of being Paul Auster, which is quite touching don't you think? He recalls the cuts, bruises, kisses, panic attacks, intimacies, illnesses, and near fatalities that have made up his physical life. He recalls the houses and the rooms he has inhabited. Lots of snow storms. It is a book swamped with deaths, ponderings on his own death, remembrances of his mother's death in particular. It is a book which makes you think about mortality, so I hope you're in a good place for that. Personally death makes me feel small like a tiny baby, but I bravely read on. I've never been able to pinpoint what it is about Auster's writing that makes it so distinctive and consuming - his books, once started, tend to take over my day somehow. This one did. Part of their mystery is that they often seem flawed, but in a such a way that even this feels intentional, as though empty spaces have carefully been woven into the fabric of the thing. So many parts of me responded in so many ways to this book. It seemed to convey something about being human, or just being alive, that felt important and rare and I reckon Auster is a good human being, and y'know, I'm glad he's still so in love with his wife.