When I picked up Paul Auster's THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES, I was prepared
to be thoroughly befuddled within the first 50 pages or so.
Several years ago a friend convinced me to read Auster's
existential detective series from the mid-'80s collectively known
as THE NEW YORK TRILOGY. While the trilogy was compelling, it was
also confusing, often seeming like a lengthy in-joke to which the
reader (or more precisely, this reader) wasn't privy.
Twenty years after penning THE NEW YORK TRILOGY (and with nine
additional novels to his credit), Auster has delivered a remarkab