Un hombre en la oscuridad

Por Paul Auster

August Brill ha sufrido un accidente de coche y se está recuperando en casa de su hija, en Vermont. No puede dormir, e inventa historias en la oscuridad. En una de ellas, Owen Brick, un joven mago, despierta en el fondo de un foso. Aparece entonces el sargento Serge, que le ayuda a salir. América está inmersa en una guerra civil. Los atentados del once de septiembre no han tenido lu­gar, y tampoco la guerra de Irak. Los Estados Unidos combaten desde hace tiempo, pero contra ellos mismos. Unos cuantos estados han declarado la independencia. Brick no entiende nada. Pero su misión es asesinar a un tal Blake, o Block, o Black, un hombre que no puede dormir, y que, como un dios, inventa en la noche esa guerra que no acabará nunca si él no muere. Aunque no se llama Blake ni Block ni Black, Brill es un crítico litera­rio y puede contarnos una feroz fábula de nuestros días. Y así, en un juego fascinante, se despliegan dos novelas: una reveladora versión de la política americana actual y sus dilemas éticos, mientras que la otra es la «novela fa­miliar» del narrador, donde Brill nos cuenta su propia vida y nos descubre amores, secretos y traiciones.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 15 jul 2010
• ISBN: 9788433932587

Paul Auster

Paul Auster is the bestselling author of Oracle Night, The Book of Illusions, and Timbuktu. I Thought My Father Was God, the NPR National Story Project anthology, which he edited, was also a national bestseller. His work has been translated into thirty languages. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Vista previa del libro

Uri

Estoy solo en la oscuridad, dándole vueltas al mundo en la cabeza mientras paso otra noche de insomnio, otra noche en blanco en la gran desolación americana. Arriba, mi hija y mi nieta están cada una en su habitación, también solas: mi hija única, Miriam, de cuarenta y siete años, que se acuesta sola desde hace cinco, y Katya, de veintitrés, única hija de Miriam, que antes dormía con un joven llamado Titus Small, pero ahora Titus ha muerto, y mi nieta duerme sola con el corazón destrozado.

Luz radiante, y luego oscuridad. El sol fulgurando por todos los rincones del cielo, seguido de la negrura de la noche, el silencio de las estrellas, el viento que agita las ramas. Ésa es la monotonía diaria. Llevo viviendo más de un año en esta casa, desde que me dieron de alta en el hospital. Miriam insistió en que viniera, y al principio estábamos los dos solos, junto con la enfermera que me cuidaba durante el día cuando mi hija se iba a trabajar. Luego, tres meses después, a Katya se le cayó el mundo encima, y entonces dejó la escuela de cine en Nueva York y se vino a Vermont a vivir con su madre.

Sus padres lo llamaron como al hijo de Rembrandt, ese pequeño de los cuadros, el niño de cabellos dorados y gorro escarlata, el pupilo distraído que no comprende la lección, la criatura transformada en un joven devastado por la enfermedad que murió a los veintitantos años, igual que el Titus de Katya. Es un nombre maldito, un nombre que debería retirarse para siempre de la circulación. Pienso a menudo en el fin de Titus, la horrorosa historia de su último trance, las imágenes de su agonía, las demoledoras consecuencias de su muerte en mi atribulada nieta, pero no quiero entrar en eso ahora, no puedo caer en ello, tengo que alejarlo lo más posible de mi pensamiento. La noche aún es joven, y sin moverme de la cama, con los ojos clavados en la oscuridad, en una tiniebla tan impenetrable que no se alcanza a ver el techo, me pongo a recordar la historia que empecé anoche. Eso es lo que hago cuando no logro conciliar el sueño. Me quedo tumbado en la cama y me cuento historias. Quizá no sean gran cosa, pero siempre y cuando no me salga de ellas, me evitan pensar en cosas que prefiero olvidar. La concentración, sin embargo, puede darme problemas, y las más de las veces mis pensamientos acaban derivando de la historia que pretendo contar a las cosas en las cuales no quiero pensar. No hay nada que hacer. Fracaso una y otra vez, hay más chascos que aciertos, pero eso no quiere decir que no ponga todo mi empeño.

Lo metí en un hoyo. Parecía un buen comienzo, una prometedora manera de poner las cosas en marcha. Situar a un hombre dormido en un pozo, para luego ver lo que pasa cuando se despierte e intente salir trepando. Me refiero a una profunda concavidad en el suelo, de unos tres metros de honda, excavada en forma de círculo perfecto, con paredes verticales de tierra sólida, muy compacta, tan dura que la superficie tiene una textura de arcilla modelada, de vidrio incluso. En otras palabras, cuando el hombre abra los ojos no conseguirá salir del hoyo. A menos que disponga de una serie de aparejos de montaña –martillo y crampones, por ejemplo, o una cuerda para echar un lazo a un árbol cercano–, pero este hombre no tiene herramientas, y una vez que recobre la conciencia, enseguida comprenderá la naturaleza del aprieto en que se encuentra.

Y así es. El hombre se despierta y descubre que está tendido de espaldas, mirando al cielo de un atardecer sin nubes. Se llama Owen Brick, y no tiene ni idea de cómo ha ido a parar allí, no guarda recuerdo alguno de cómo ha caído en ese agujero cilíndrico, que según sus cálculos tendrá aproximadamente tres metros y medio de diámetro. Se incorpora. Para su sorpresa, va vestido con un uniforme parduzco de lana áspera. Tiene la cabeza cubierta con una gorra, y lleva un par de robustas y gastadas botas de cuero negro, bien atadas por encima de los tobillos con una doble lazada. En las mangas de la chaqueta ostenta dos galones, lo que indica que el uniforme pertenece a un militar con el rango de cabo. Esa persona podría ser Owen Brick, pero el hombre del hoyo, cuyo nombre es Owen Brick, no recuerda haber servido en el ejército ni combatido en guerra alguna en ningún momento de su vida.

A falta de otra explicación, supone que ha perdido temporalmente la memoria a consecuencia de algún golpe recibido en la cabeza. Sin embargo, al pasarse la punta de los dedos por el cuero cabelludo en busca de rasguños o chichones, no encuentra indicios de bultos, ni heridas ni arañazos, nada que sugiera la existencia de ese golpe. ¿Qué ha sido, entonces? ¿Ha sufrido algún trauma que le ha mermado las facultades, haciéndole perder el uso de gran parte del cerebro? Tal vez. Pero a menos que le venga de pronto el recuerdo de ese trauma, no tendrá medio de saberlo. Seguidamente, empieza a explorar la posibilidad de que esté durmiendo en la cama, en su casa, atrapado en un sueño extrañamente lúcido, un sueño tan verosímil y absorbente que la frontera entre lo real y lo imaginario se ha difuminado hasta casi desaparecer. Si eso es cierto, entonces no tiene más que abrir los ojos, levantarse de la cama y dirigirse a la cocina a prepararse el café del desayuno. Pero ¿cómo se pueden abrir los ojos cuando ya están abiertos? Parpadea unas cuantas veces, en un intento pueril de romper el encantamiento; pero no hay hechizo alguno, y la cama mágica no llega a materializarse.

En lo alto, una bandada de estorninos atraviesa su campo de visión durante cinco o seis segundos, desapareciendo luego hacia el crepúsculo. Brick se pone en pie para inspeccionar su entorno, y entonces nota que le abulta un objeto en el bolsillo delantero izquierdo del pantalón. Resulta ser una cartera, la suya, y además de setenta y seis dólares estadounidenses, contiene un carné de conducir expedido por el estado de Nueva York a un tal Owen Brick, nacido el 12 de junio de 1977. Eso confirma lo que Brick ya sabe: que es un individuo cercano a la treintena con domicilio en Jackson Heights, en el barrio de Queens. Sabe asimismo que está casado con una mujer llamada Flora y que durante los últimos siete años ha trabajado como mago profesional, actuando principalmente en fiestas de aniversario infantiles por toda la ciudad con el nombre artístico del Gran Zavello. Tales hechos no hacen sino ahondar el misterio. Si tan seguro está de quién es, ¿cómo ha acabado entonces en el fondo de ese pozo, vestido con uniforme de cabo, nada menos, sin documentos, ni placa ni identificación que acredite su condición militar?

No tarda mucho en comprender que escapar de allí es totalmente imposible. La pared circular es muy alta, y cuando le da un puntapié con la bota con idea de hacer una marca y crear una especie de punto de apoyo que le permita escalarla, sólo consigue hacerse daño en el dedo gordo. La noche cae rápidamente, y va haciendo frío, un frío húmedo de primavera que le va calando hasta los huesos, y aunque ha empezado a tener miedo, de momento está más confuso que asustado. Sin embargo, no puede por menos de gritar pidiendo auxilio. Hasta ahora, todo ha estado en silencio a su alrededor, señal de que se encuentra en algún lugar remoto y despoblado de la campiña, sin más ruido que el ocasional grito de un pájaro y el murmullo del viento. Como cumpliendo una orden, sin embargo, como obedeciendo a cierta lógica sesgada de causa y efecto, en el momento en que grita la palabra SOCORRO, un fragor de artillería estalla a lo lejos, y el oscuro cielo se alumbra con cometas que van dejando una estela de destrucción. Brick oye ametralladoras, granadas que explotan, y bajo todo eso, sin duda a kilómetros de distancia, un apagado coro de alaridos humanos. Es la guerra, comprende entonces, y él combate en ella, pero sin arma alguna a su disposición, no podrá defenderse si lo atacan, y por primera vez desde que se despertó en el hoyo, siente verdadero pánico.

Las detonaciones se prolongan más de una hora, para luego disiparse poco a poco hasta que se hace el silencio. No mucho después, Brick oye un tenue sonido de sirenas, que atribuye a coches de bomberos que acuden velozmente a los edificios dañados durante el asalto. Luego las sirenas se apagan a su vez y la calma desciende sobre él una vez más. Además de asustado y aterido de frío, Brick está agotado, y tras pasear en torno a los confines de su cárcel cilíndrica hasta que las estrellas aparecen en el firmamento, se tiende en el suelo y logra dormir al fin.

A la mañana siguiente, muy temprano, lo despierta una voz que lo llama desde arriba del hoyo. Brick alza la cabeza y ve el rostro de un hombre asomado por el borde, y como sólo puede verle la cara, supone que está tumbado boca abajo.

Cabo, dice el desconocido. Cabo Brick, es hora de marcharse.

Brick se pone en pie, y ahora que sus ojos están sólo a un metro o metro treinta del rostro del desconocido, ve que se trata de un individuo de tez morena, mandíbula cuadrada y barba de dos días, que lleva una gorra militar idéntica a la que él tiene puesta en la cabeza. Antes de que Brick pueda protestar siquiera para decir que por mucho que desee largarse de allí no está en condiciones de hacerlo, el rostro del hombre desaparece.

No te preocupes, le oye decir. Te sacaremos de ahí en un periquete.

Unos momentos después, se oye el ruido de un martillo o un mazo golpeando sobre un objeto metálico, y como el sonido se va apagando a cada golpe sucesivo, Brick se pregunta si el desconocido está hincando una estaca de hierro en el suelo. Porque si es así, entonces puede que dentro de poco ate a la estaca una cuerda mediante la cual él podrá trepar y salir del hoyo. Cesa el ruido metálico, pasan otros treinta o cuarenta segundos, y entonces, tal como Brick suponía, cae una cuerda a sus pies.

Brick practica la magia, no el culturismo, y aunque trepar por un metro de cuerda no constituya un esfuerzo excesivamente agotador para un hombre de treinta años en buen estado de salud, a él en cambio le cuesta mucho izarse hasta arriba. La pared no le sirve de ayuda, pues la suela de las botas le resbala continuamente por la lisa superficie, y cuando intenta asegurar los pies en la cuerda, no consigue sujetarse bien, lo que supone que debe recurrir exclusivamente a la fuerza de los brazos, y como los suyos no son ni fuertes ni musculosos, y la cuerda es de un material áspero y por tanto le irrita la palma de las manos, esa sencilla operación se convierte en una verdadera batalla. Cuando por fin llega al borde del pozo y el desconocido le da la mano derecha y tira de él hasta ponerlo a nivel del suelo, Brick está sin aliento y asqueado de sí mismo. Tras una actuación tan penosa, espera que su ineptitud sea objeto de burla, pero por algún milagro el desconocido se abstiene de hacer comentario vejatorio alguno.

Mientras se pone trabajosamente en pie, Brick observa que el uniforme de su salvador es igual que el suyo, con la única excepción de que lleva tres galones en la manga, y no dos. Hay una espesa niebla en el ambiente, y le resulta difícil hacerse una idea de dónde se encuentra. En algún sitio solitario del campo, tal como suponía, pero la ciudad o el pueblo que anoche fue víctima del ataque no se ve por parte alguna. Lo único que distingue con claridad es la estaca de metal con la cuerda atada y un jeep lleno de barro estacionado a unos tres metros del hoyo.

Cabo, dice el desconocido, tendiendo la mano a Brick y estrechándosela con un apretón firme y entusiasta. Soy tu sargento, Serge Tobak. Pero me suelen llamar Sarge Serge.

Brick baja la cabeza y mira al desconocido, que por lo menos es quince centímetros más bajo que él, y repite con voz queda: Sarge Serge.

Ya lo sé, dice Tobak. Muy gracioso. Pero me quedé con ese mote, y no hay nada que hacer. Si no puedes con el enemigo, únete a él, ¿no?

¿Qué estoy haciendo aquí?, pregunta Brick, tratando de disimular la angustia de su voz.

Tranquilo, muchacho. Estás combatiendo en una guerra. ¿Qué creías que era esto? ¿Una excursión al parque de atracciones?

¿Qué guerra? ¿Significa eso que estamos en Irak?

¿Irak? ¿A quién le importa Irak?

Estados Unidos está librando una guerra en Irak. Todo el mundo lo sabe.

Que le den por culo a Irak. Esto es Norteamérica, y Norteamérica está luchando contra Norteamérica.

Pero ¿de qué habla?

De guerra civil, Brick. ¿Es que no te has enterado de nada? Éste es el cuarto año. Pero ahora que has aparecido, todo se acabará enseguida. Tú eres quien va a decidir el curso de los acontecimientos.

¿Cómo sabe mi nombre?

Estás en mi pelotón, atontado.

¿Y qué me dice del hoyo? ¿Qué hacía yo ahí abajo?

Procedimiento normal. Todos los nuevos reclutas se nos presentan así.

Pero yo no me he alistado. No me han reclutado.

Pues claro que no. Nadie se alista. Pero así son las cosas. Resulta que estás viviendo tu vida, y de pronto te encuentras metido en la guerra.

Brick está tan confuso por las informaciones de Tobak que no sabe qué decir.

La cosa es así, insiste el sargento. Tú eres el imbécil que han elegido para la gran tarea. No me preguntes por qué, pero el estado mayor considera que eres el más indicado para la misión. A lo mejor es porque nadie te conoce, o quizá porque tienes un aire de, ¿cómo decir...?, una cara de soso que a nadie se le ocurriría pensar que eres un asesino.

¿Asesino?

Eso es, asesino. Pero yo prefiero utilizar el término liberador. O artífice de la paz. Llámese como se quiera, sin ti nunca acabará la guerra.

A Brick le encantaría echar a correr en ese mismo momento, pero como está desarmado, no se le ocurre otra cosa que seguirle la corriente.

¿Y a quién tengo que eliminar?, pregunta.

Más bien sería qué en vez de a quién, contesta enigmáticamente el sargento. Ni siquiera conocemos su nombre. Podría ser Blake. Quizá sea Black. Puede que Bloch. Pero sabemos su dirección, y si todavía sigue allí, no creo que tengas problema alguno. Te proporcionaremos un contacto en la ciudad, pasarás a la clandestinidad, y en unos cuantos días todo habrá

Comentarios para Un hombre en la oscuridad

[big_bang_gorilla · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

In which an invalid, elderly novelist fills us in on his life story, as well as sketching the framework of a novel which finds a man-in-the-street drafted as a paid assassin in the service of one side in a civil war which has broken out after the secession of blue states outraged by the administration of Bush 43. The protagonist's reminiscences are unbearably tedious, centering on such mind-numbers as where his second ex-wife was when race riots broke out in Newark during the sixties. At that, they're a welcome relief from when his windbag granddaughter, a wannabe film critic, appears and proceeds to explain at length seemingly every movie she's ever seen, in all cases movies which you probably haven't seen for a long time, or cared about, ever..As for the plotted part of the book, the part about the assassin and the civil war, it is not completely uninteresting, as it adumbrates a war zone America in the tradition of post-apocalyptic fiction, but even here the characters do far too much reminiscing, and babbling on about alternate realities and literary characters who want to kill their authors, which helps nothing. In any case, this story ends some fifty pages before the book does, leaving us with quite a slog through some further banal recollections. I finished this because of its brevity; there are worse books out there, but I don't believe I've ever read one straight through.

[boohradley · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

There are two sides to this book. What stands out and redeems Auster from too neatly wrapping up the "imagined yet real dream" plot line is the delicate way he reveals the grief and angst of him main characters. Unlike some of his other novels where his characters are mostly agents in a philosophical dilemma, which is usually still very interesting, the characters in Man In The Dark had more depth and nuance, especially the granddaughter Katya. Yet the alternate reality that the grandfather imagines resolved itself in a very unsatisfactory way. It was an interesting premise that I expected to eventually become the main story of the novel or that it would converge with the story of the family. Overall I was satisfied with the novel, but suspect it could have been something much greater. On a side note: if you enjoy Auster's novels check out his wife Siri Hustvedt's novel The Blindfold.

[msarki_3 · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

One of the worst books I have read in recent memory. I would bet there haven't been five others I have at least attempted this past twelve months that have been worse than this sentimental fluff. How a writer as good as Paul Auster could have written something like this let alone have it published is beyond me. This book will do nothing but leave a bad mark on his memory and it did not have to be. Not everything we write is worth keeping. There is something delusional or greedy in the publication of this book. And the reviews that praise this novel a masterpiece? Oh my. What fools are in our midst. As soon as I get home next month I will list this P.O.S. on amazon.com and hope another fool like me (who hasn't yet read my own review) purchases it.

[fergus_cooper-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

I am a big Paul Auster fan. I have read most of his novels. The New York Trilogy is an outstanding piece of literature. However, some of Auster's more recent work is very different. It lacks the the same quality. It seems that as Auster ages he feels that he needs to be more prolific and fit as many books as he possibly can in to his life. This has affected the quality of each novel. I still re-read some of his older books and search for the deeper layered meanings/messages within. However, I find that his most recent stories lack structure and as a result the books are forgettable. 'Man in the Dark' is one such novel. What happened to the man in the story who was charged with killing the Protagonist. He faded away like the man in the room in Oracle Night. We had two stories juxtaposing and one petered out as a damp squib. Why begin it if you can not tie it in nicely with the main story of the Man in the Dark with his daughter and Grand daughter. With a lot more thought this could have been a great book. However, like a lot of Auster's recent work, it was rushed. Quality will last a lot longer and be more appreciated than quantity.

[vhartpowers · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

Organized chaos.
August is an older man, living with his broken daughter who's getting over her divorce and his grand-daughter who is broken and blames herself for the horrid/grisley dealth of her ex-boyfriend. August is recovering from a car accident, laid up in bed and his writers mind keeps him occupied from his thoughts/mistakes in life by creating stories when he cannot fall asleep.

A line in the book is used; it's a line from a poem written from Nathaniel Hawthorne's daughter Ruth -
As the weird rolls on.

It's more like, as the weird continues to write. This book was two stories in one that finally connect, but one ends so abruptly what was the point in including it except to fill pages and connect the fragments to the main character?
There were parts of emotional growth, etc. but the book was too disjointed for my tastes and I didn't care for or have any compassion or any feeling at all for that matter for any of the characters in the book. Are we as humans truly as fragile and broken as the writer of the book portrays his characters? I hope not.

[eclecticheart · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is another of Paul Auster's story within a story books (not that I'm complaining). It touches on 9/11 which touches me in that Auster is the first person I thought of when I heard about the attacks. He was my closest connection at the time. I thought of Loretta from The Sting (although she doesn't match the physical description)...she must be my go-to image of a waitress. lol

[danielstj · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

An absolutely brilliant, streamlined, and powerful piece of fiction by Paul Auster. I really liked Music of Chance and thought this would be another interesting foray, but this really blew me away. This is great in what it manages to do and touches on so many different themes that it was impossible for me not to enjoy this fine work of fiction. Truly a great contemporary piece that sheds light on the darkness, and light, of the world.4.5 stars- fully earned.

[phredfrancis · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This story turned out to be darker than I expected, and the initial structural conceits ended sooner than expected. But I'm still giving this a high rating simply because Paul Auster always creates novels that intrigue and entertain me. I'm lit-smitten, and there's not much I can do about it at this point. Suffice to say that this was an interesting and compelling short novel, but the later development went astray from my desires and expectations. So this is a three-and-a-half rating, but Auster gets rounded up to four stars, because he's written so many books that I absolutely adore. Still, be aware that I cringed in public at the painful revelation of the central tragedy that overshadows most of the action. If you're easily injured psychically, be on your guard.

[bibleblaster · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I've read all of Auster's novels and love his sensibility. This particular one is not his best; the plot is a little rocky, more of the seams show through than usual, but it had enough of his reflective musings about the stories we tell ourselves to keep me with him. Don't start with this one, but definitely read Auster.

[pan0ramix-1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

It might very well grow into a four-star once I've digested it. Two-thirds through I was pretty much ready to write it off as something wanting to be a Vonnegut piece but without the sting. The story (stories) seemed to lack purpose and an old mans ramblings seemed like just that, an old mans rambling. However in the final third it kind of came together and I caught on to something that might be summed up by the following quote:

Why is life so horrible, Grandpa?
Because it is, that's all. It just is

So it goes.

[membrillu-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

El libro en si tiene su gracia, tiene estilo y la prosa funciona perfectamente, però el argumento es tramposo y estafador. Una penita, porque estaba disfrutando mucho con la novela y por culpa del tercio final es muy decepcionante. Un chasco.

[paulagraph · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Man in the Dark is a short novel (180 pages) composed of one long chapter. I would categorize it as meta-fiction once removed or fictionalized meta-fiction (In this it reminds me of 2 novels I read last year: Queen of the Prisons of Greece, by Osman Lins and Diary of a Bad Year, by J.M. Coetzee). August Brill, the storyteller/ protagonist, is a 72 year old retired book critic and insomniac who lies awake at night telling himself stories while worrying about his 47 year old daughter Miriam and his 23 year old granddaughter Katya and while grieving for his dead wife Sonia.
For the first 2/3 of the novel, the narrative switches back and forth between August's memories and musings and the story he invents to distract himself from the same. The protagonist of August's story is Owen Brick (a professional magician called the Great Zavello)who finds himself in a parallel world where he is a corporal in the Independents’ army. In this parallel world, 9/11 never happened and the U.S. never went to war against Iraq. Instead, America is caught up in its 4th year of a civil war between the Independents (16 states) and the Federals, with 13 million dead as of April 19, 2007.
Unfortunately, August/ Auster abruptly ends the story of Owen Brick on page 118. From then on, the novel stays with August and his memories as he responds to Katya's demands to tell her about his marriage to her grandmother. Well and good, but this just isn't as interesting as the parallel worlds story (which itself is too convoluted to summarize here). Sigh!
At its best, however, Man in the Dark lives up to what could be the epigraph of the memoir August never finishes or the collection of stories he never writes: the one line from Rose Hawthorne's poetry that the book critic in August admires: "As the weird world rolls on."

[xirxe · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Nur eine Nacht umfasst die Rahmenhandlung dieses Buches, doch die Geschichten die darin erzählt werden, würden locker für eine ganze Woche ausreichen.
August Brill, 72jähriger verwitweter Literaturkritiker, lebt seit einem Unfall der ihn zum Krüppel machte, bei seiner geschiedenen Tochter Miriam, die ebenso unglücklich ist wie er. Zu den Beiden gesellt sich noch Augusts Enkelin Katya, Miriams Tochter, die sich die Schuld am Tod ihres Ex-Freundes gibt und deren Lebensenergie gerade noch dazu ausreicht, sich gemeinsam mit ihrem Großvater Filme anzuschauen. Wie in fast jeder Nacht kann Brill nicht schlafen und so beginnt er, sich eine Geschichte auszudenken um möglichen Erinnerungen (und ganz besonders einer bestimmten) aus dem Weg zu gehen. Owen Brick lebt mit seiner Frau ein normales kleines Leben bis er sich eines Morgens in einer Grube wiederfindet, gekleidet in eine Soldatenuniform. Nach und nach wird ihm klar, dass er sich in einer Parallelwelt befindet - aber noch immer in der gleichen Zeit und im gleichen Land. Dort herrscht ein Sezessionskrieg, der schon Tausende Menschen das Leben gekostet hat. Und Owen wurde dazu ausgewählt, diese Barbarei zu beenden. Doch dafür muss er einen Menschen töten...
Wie schon erwähnt, ist dies nicht die einzige Geschichte des Buches. Brill schreckt immer wieder aus seiner Phantasie auf und verliert sich dann in Erinnerungen, in denen ebenfalls wieder Geschichten erzählt werden, die ohne weiteres die Grundlage für ein eigenes Buch sein könnten.
Es sind traurige Erzählungen, die aber zumindest ein kleines bisschen Trost enthalten: die Frau deren Mann verschwand, sie aber immer liebte; der SS-Offizier der das junge Mädchen hoffnungslos liebte und ihr und ihrer Familie zur Flucht verhalf; Owen Brick, der ein Land von einem Krieg befreien soll - doch um welchen Preis? Und Brills Leben selbst, der sich nie verzeihen kann, was er seiner geliebten Sonja antat...
Es ist das erste Buch von Auster, das ich gelesen habe und ich bin hin und weg. Nicht nur dass er gut erzählen kann, er ist auch in der Lage diesen an sich schon packenden Geschichten so viel Hintergründiges mitzugeben, dass man ständig zum Weiterdenken angeregt wird. Da führen die USA mal keinen Krieg gegen Dritte - und schon erheben sie die Waffen gegeneinander. Oder welche Aussagekraft Gegenstände in Filmen entwickeln können - beeindruckend. Soll ein Mensch einen anderen töten, um das Leben vieler anderer zu retten?
Suchte ich nach einem Motto für dieses Buch, wäre es 'Das Leben ist enttäuschend...' - ein Satz der in einem der beschriebenen Filme fällt und vermutlich jeder der Personen in diesem Haus zugeschrieben werden könnte. Doch 'Und die wunderliche Welt dreht sich weiter' - ein Zitat von Rose Hawthorne, das am Ende des Buches auftaucht und (irgendwie allen) wieder Mut macht.

[kirstiecat · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is intriguing in alot of ways and is quite true to experimental fiction form in the twisted sense that the main character is an author and his character comes to live in some sort of literary alternate universe where the real war waging isn't between the US and Iraq but between the red and blue states. The novel sort of loses that momentum though and speaks more about the intimate experience of getting older and reminiscing about the whole of your life and the ones you've lost. It's definitely not the best nor my favorite Paul Auster novel but it's ideal for someone who is an older reader and also has many memories that haunt.

[librarybrandy · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Stories within stories, within stories. In my head, Auster is similar to Cory Doctorow in that they both have a bunch of good ideas and cram them all into one book. I guess it works, and it's good, and yet doesn't light my world on fire.

[carl_hayes-1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Aside from the strangely robotic/mathematical use of American idiom, this is the first Auster book I've enjoyed in quite awhile. Not a great book like City of Glass or Music of Chance, but solid. The secessionist civil war fantasy is definitely captivating. Reminded me of PK Dick ala Man in the High Castle.

[jimelkins · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

There is something primitive about Paul Auster. This primitiveness is lodged exactly where it should not be, in the fluency and ease of his storytelling. As reviewers always say, he is an inexhaustible source of stories, and in this book the stories never stop: there’s never any danger of slowing down; that is fitting because somehow slowing down feels like treacherous thing to do. What would happen if one story failed to succeed the last in a seamless sequence? Why should that seem like a problem? It feels that way, I think, because despite Auster’s themes—the book is about a widowed older man, his daughter who was abandoned by her husband, and the daughter’s daughter whose boyfriend died in Iraq—this is a book in which stories are used as distractions to avoid thinking more deeply. Auster is absolutely accomplished as a storyteller, and that theme (using stories to distract yourself) is built into the book. The principal character invents some stories of his own, to help him not to think about his family. That much Auster knows, and controls. He even has his principal character kill off the protagonist of his own invented story. But at another level, Auster doesn’t seem aware that all the stories in his book, and not just the ones invented by his narrator, serve the function of avoiding real introspection, real difficulty. As evidence of that I take the quality that binds all the stories in this novel together: the stories all run with a predictable, uninterrupted fluency. They are like driving by the scene of an accident: you slow up a little, but not enough to get involved. The story that the narrator invents in order not to think about his own past is itself as threadbare as they come (a post-apocalyptic fantasy, along the lines of any number of TV fantasy movies), but that doesn’t seem to bother either the narrator (who is supposedly a literary critic, and should really show some embarrassment at his own story), or the novelist (who is actually a prolific writer, and could easily have added a subtle sign that he didn’t find his narrator’s invented stories as entrancing as his narrator does). That is what I mean by “primitive”: the architecture of the postmodern novel is there, and there’s a clarity of structure and pacing that few novelists can match, but Auster seems relentlessly to misunderstand the function of narrative: it cannot only be a balm or distraction. Narrative has to break down or get itself in trouble, or falter, or question itself—not just the way a character might question the truth of a narrative, or its appropriateness, or its usefulness in distracting him—but the way a character might fail just telling a story, fail in the telling and not just in deciding whether to tell, the way this sentence is failing because I can’t quite get my thought about it right.There are a few moments in Man in the Dark when the flow of stories stop, but they are stage-managed to create a little shocks, or streams of tears: and that, too, is a kind of evasion, an easier sort of crisis, something not at all genuinely persistently moving. The surprise ending of the entire book is one such moment. Spoiler alert: I’m about to say what that surprise is. But note: books that can actually be spoiled by giving away their endings are trivial sorts of books like murder mysteries and detective stories. This book presents itself as literary fiction, and there shouldn’t be a spoiler in it. In this book the surprise is that the grand-daughter’s boyfriend was kidnapped in Iraq, and the family has seen his gruesome execution video on the internet.When I read that I groaned. Isn’t ordinary human suffering enough to create empathy and significance? Is it really necessary to tack on something spectacular, something topical and political, something garish and horrible? Doesn’t that sort of ornament just distract from what really counts—which is, in this case, that a person has died? The surprise ending is tremendously irritating, not for its politics, but because it functions just the way an elaborate murder does in Agatha Christie: it helps us not to think about what we are actually witnessing, a death. Readers of murder mysteries expect that kind of superficiality. Here, where there are literary ambitions, and where many pages are devoted to people’s feelings and thoughts, it is not just annoying: it is bewildering that a novelist could think such a surprise is sufficient, justified, necessary, sensible, or even expressive.

[milti_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I can't even begin to take stock of my feelings after reading this novel, or explain why I gave it four stars. I would give it a fifth if I thought it was perfect, but I would like to read more of this author's work before I fall completely in love with him.Maybe it's the numerous story lines that intersect and meet so lovingly, but they are spun so delicate, the narrator treads gently and softly through them. Maybe it's the superbly human characters the author makes, who have mundane lives and are subject to all their human foibles and can still love so deeply and so honestly.Maybe it's the fact that I sniffled my way through the last few pages. The story was intense, gripping, much like the movie the narrator wanted to make at the end.Or (now I'm being silly) maybe it's the fact that every single one of the places mentioned in that book - New England/New Haven, Worcester, Vermont - is connected with the one person that I miss the most at this point and I'm just being hormonal. ;)Either way it was a wonderful read and I can't wait to read more of this author's work. reminded me of Camus, an author I love for many of the afore-mentioned qualities. I only hope that Auster's subsequent fiction is as delightfully delicate, yet captivating... muted in overt emotion, yet moving.

[mojacobs · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

A short novel but masterfully told. Seventy-two year old August Brill has gone to live with his divorced daughter Miriam after the death of his beloved wife Sonia, and a car accident that left him crippled. Granddaughter Katya has also returned home after the horrific death of (ex) boyfriend Titus in Iran. This is not a happy household, and sleepless nights are the norm rather than the exception.A story about lofe, life, and loving. Sad and hopeful at the same time, rational and emotional, leaving you with the feeling that you really know these three people. I loved it.

[veranaz22 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I liked the concept of the book, but quit reading halfway through (for now) as I felt it wasn't getting anywhere and was a bit confusing at times. This one has two main story lines. Three out of five.

[petterw_2 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Why was I so moved by this Paul Auster novel? I started out thinking this is a rather distanced and constructed story, but as I read on the story of an old man reluctantly looking back on his mistakes it touched me more and more. The last part of the book is basically a conversation between two wounded people, the granddaughter and the grandfather, a real page turner. That can be said about the fiction-within-fiction story that the old man concocts as well. Auster writes better than most contemporary writers, and he handles so many genres, he never seizes to surprise and delight me. He was among my favorite writers before Man in the Dark, he is even more so now.

[oscarwilde87_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Reading Man in the Dark by Paul Auster was rather a coincidence. I don't really remember, but I think I picked up the author's name somewhere at the university. Not in a lecture but some place talking to other students.Anyway, the novel is fascinating. It is a story about August Brill, an insomniac, but then again, it is not. The story has two levels, parallel worlds one might call them. August Brill is a long retired literary critic making up stories because he cannot sleep. The first part of the novel relates one of those stories in a fragmented way. The second part of the novel relates the familiar background of August Brill.One can dive into deep in an analysis of this novel, but let me just say that the style reminds me a lot of postmodern narration. The reader encounters loose fragments in the beginning, the story does not give us closure. Having two parallel levels - insomniac narration or 'reality' - Auster plays nicely with focalization. When both levels mix up, become one, play with each other, the reader really can be tempted to question what is 'real'.There is just one thing left to tell you: Buy it, read it, love it! 4.5 stars.

[grazianoronca_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Man in the Darkby Paul Auster A book in one night and two parts.August Brill (August is a bright month) is the main character of Man in the Dark. Affected by insomnia, he tells himself stories. In the first part of this book August invented a war inside Usa and a character, Owen Brick, who has to kill someone. The second part: August recounts to his grandaughter, Katya, the story of his marriage and after he rethinks the kidnapping and murder of Katya's boyfriend in Iraq. Auster, with August's help, wants to build a new world, a parallel world of bricks that lasts (Owen Brick = Oven brick). But this parallel world destroys itself because August falls in his world again, he needs to rethink his world first. In the first part we find Auster's stereotypes from other books, while in the second part Auster introduces the History that hits the men; maybe he is following a new path in his books. I prefer the first part, the Auster we all know; although 'As the weird world rolls on' (p. 180)' we could accept Auster's reflections about History.

[pdever_4 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Great Author, good book. I haven't read Paul Auster in so many years that I had forgotten just how much I like his writing. "Man in the Dark" was a happy reintroduction, providing lovely prose, depth of thought, labyrinthine twining of stories within stories, and refreshing clarity about the simple nature of the most complex feelings--one of the reviewers calls it clichéd another calls it boring. I think it's great.The story is about an old man who fights insomnia and invents stories to keep from thinking about his life and relationships. His latest story is about a civil war--things are so bad that he invents a character to kill the author, just to make it stop. As it turns out the old man's story doesn't keep him distracted at all--these things never do. Still, he makes it through the night. In the end it's all about his life and relationships.

[mynovelthoughts · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is a beautifully written novel centerd around the imagination and memories of August Brill. During one night of many nights of insomnia, the reader enter's the mind of August as he creates a story of a parallel America at war with itself as he tries to cope with his past and the struggles within his family.This is the first time I have read a novel by Paul Auster and I will be sure to read more.

[rodrichards_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I've read all of Auster's novels and love his sensibility. This particular one is not his best; the plot is a little rocky, more of the seams show through than usual, but it had enough of his reflective musings about the stories we tell ourselves to keep me with him. Don't start with this one, but definitely read Auster.

[grabbag_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Unable to summarize the book, I will simply say that its transitions from the elderly narrator to the younger narrator are seamless, culminating in the end in a beautiful ending. I thought this novel was interesting, albeit a little strange.

[bojanfurst_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Paul Auster's Man in the Dark turned out to be quite an interesting read with an unexpected ending. I enjoyed clear style and clever story telling. This was my first Auster novel and I am actually looking forward to reading more.

[ti99er_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is my first foray into the world of Paul Auster, and I must say it was a pleasant foray as foray’s go. Man in the Dark was written in that seemingly new wave popular “no quotation” style that takes a minute to get used to but then becomes somewhat pleasing to the eye as you go. I don’t know if there is a name for this style, because I am but a simpleton; must be the reason I am dwelling on the style of the book rather than its substance. Man in the dark is an interesting story within a story within a story. Auster has a wonderful talent for building strong and believable characters. He has mastered the show; don’t tell technique of character development and action. This book of a mere 180 pages, is chalk full of interesting little stories; maybe tidbits is a better descriptor about seemingly ordinary people. The main character is a man in his early seventies who is living with his daughter and granddaughter after a car accident has left him crippled. Each night he finds sleep as a mere desire rather than an actuality, so to pass the time he tells himself stories; so real and some fictional. It is a kind of one act, one set play where the main character examines his life and the lives of those who have touched him most deeply; especially his family. This is an excellent story; I can’t wait to read more of this author.

[mccabio · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Slightly looser than the typical Auster. The metafictional strand of the dystopic US Civil War story was not fully-developed, I was half expecting an Auster twist whereby the manin character's invented characters came to kill him. That didn't happen though the novel was no weaker for that. It was more an exploration of age and family - regrests and consolations - and so perhaps shows a more subtle shift in Auster's work.