“What the fuck was that?!”, I cried at the very last sentence.
I planned to read another book right after finishing it but no, Auster wouldn’t let me go. I had to make sense of it. I had to understand. I had to.
So I retold myself the significant parts, read back on the details I thought I might be missing and tried to analyze what it was all about.
This book is basically about how the characters and stories created by people, especially writers are bound to haunt them.
Auster illustrated the struggles or if I may say, the “curse” of writing fiction. Partial stories of people were told through Mr. Blank’s readings and through people visiting him. Then it was shown that Mr.Blank himself was responsible for the misfortunes of those people.Try as he might though, he was at a loss to make sense or even find a vague clue to his mysterious past.He also sees a parade of "figment beings" , "demons... that would eventually tear his body apart.", as said in the book.
Much later in the story he was asked to give the continuation of the unfinished novel he had just read.
The real deal however was that Mr. Blank’s story is actually an ongoing novel by an author named Fanshawe who said that “... he (Mr. Blank) can never die, never disappear, never be anything but the words I am writing on his page."
My thoughts are that the figment beings he sees whenever he close his eyes are the angry people he made to suffer.His charges. Let me take this further by saying that one of those charges, was Fanshawe himself.
The camera placed inside Mr.Blank's room that captured everything was Fanshawe watching his former creator. He had outlived him and Mr. Blank is now the made-up character.
This passage near the ending states the whole idea of the book: “Without him (Mr.Blank) we are nothing, but the paradox is that we [characters], the figments of another mind, will outlive the mind that made us, for once we are thrown into the world, we continue to exist forever, and our stories go on being told, even after we are dead.”
There is no argument that this is like Auster in an introspection of some sort about his writer self. I hated this book for a few seconds until it got me seriously thinking long after the last page. And that’s what I love in a book. When the reader is treated like an active, intelligent participant in the fulfillment of the story.