The thing with Paul Auster (and many other authors besides) is that when he’s good he’s really very good, and when he’s not he’s not. With Mr Vertigo he’s very good indeed, possibly at his best and, if you’ve tried any of his others, maybe his most uncharacteristic. Relying more on simple storytelling and much less on his usual themes of metafiction, intertextuality and existentialism (amongst others) rampant in later novels, it is at heart a terrifically simple, amazing tale wonderfully told and brilliant to read. Desperately sad in places, ridiculously funny in others and rather fantastic as a whole, I cannot recommend it enough whether you’re a fan of his or not. [And when you’re done give The Book of Illusions a go, which is just as good albeit quite, quite different.]
