Aside from JM Coetzee‘s semi-fictional autobiographies, I don’t think I have ever not been disappointed by a memoir. It’s best that people I admire remain an abstraction: name and works only. The one thing Paul Auster’s “Hand to Mouth” had going for it was that it was the first book I’d read of his, so there were no disappointments and no reverence to be lost. There was a passage towards the end that piqued my interest, though, where he discusses the birth of his child:
Fatherhood was the dividing line, the great wall that stood between youth and adulthood…
What do you think?
[poll id=7]