The New York Trilogy

by Paul Auster

But if the book were an interesting one, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

But this book offers him nothing. There is no story, no plot, no action

In the end, each life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose.

Stories happen only to those who are able to tell them,