This being an Auster novel, accidents visit the narrative like automobiles falling from the sky.-- James Wood, reviewing Paul Auster's new novel and generally hatin' on Auster in general.
The relationship of this review to Wood's laurels for the collected stories of Auster's ex-wife, Lydia Davis, would make a good subject for a 3-page Davis story, or "story," or whatever the hell those things are. I'm halfway through the Davis, and thinking that avant-garde belles lettres are a bit beyond me.
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