The Book of Illusions

The Book of Illusions

4.2 13
by Paul Auster

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"Six months after losing his wife and two young sons in an airplane crash, Vermont professor David Zimmer spends his waking hours in a blur of alcoholic grief and self-pity. Then, watching television one night, he stumbles upon a clip from a lost film by the silent comedian Hector Mann. Zimmer's interest is piqued, and soon finds himself embarking on a journey around…  See more details below


"Six months after losing his wife and two young sons in an airplane crash, Vermont professor David Zimmer spends his waking hours in a blur of alcoholic grief and self-pity. Then, watching television one night, he stumbles upon a clip from a lost film by the silent comedian Hector Mann. Zimmer's interest is piqued, and soon finds himself embarking on a journey around the world to study the works of this mysterious figure, who vanished from sight in 1929." "Who was Hector Mann? An Argentinian-born comic genius, with a signature white suit and fluttering black mustache, a master of "backpedals and dodges...sudden torques and lunging pavanes...double takes and hop-steps and rhumba swivels." Presumed dead for sixty years, he had flashed briefly across American movie screens, tantalizing the public with the promise of a brilliant future, and then, just as the silent era came to an end, he walked out of his house one January morning and was never heard from again." Zimmer's research leads him to write the first full-length study of Hector's films. When the book is published the following year, a letter turns up in Zimmer's mailbox bearing a return address from a small town in New Mexico - supposedly written by Hector's wife: "Hector has read your book and would like to meet you. Are you interested in paying us a visit?" Is the letter a hoax, or is Hector Mann still alive? Torn between doubt and belief, Zimmer hesitates, until one night a strange woman appears on his doorstep and makes the decision for him, changing his life forever.

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Editorial Reviews
The Barnes & Noble Review
Paul Auster is a superb memoirist (The Invention of Solitude), an original, sometimes enigmatic novelist (The New York Trilogy), and a screenwriter responsible for such idiosyncratic creations as Smoke and Lulu on the Bridge. The Book of Illusions brings together his gift for fluid, evocative prose and his ongoing fascination with the aesthetics of film to produce a dark, moving meditation on the power -- and fragility -- of art.

College professor David Zimmer succumbs to an extended, near-suicidal depression when his wife and sons die in a plane crash. While mindlessly channel-surfing one drunken evening, he stumbles across a clip from a silent comedy starring Hector Mann, a mysterious figure who disappeared in 1929. Intrigued -- then ultimately obsessed -- by Mann, Zimmer devotes himself to a rigorous examination of Mann's 12 films and eventually publishes a critical study on them. When the book comes out, a stranger contacts Zimmer, informing him that Mann is very much alive and inviting him to the filmmaker's private hideaway in New Mexico. What follows is a complex, constantly surprising story -- a narrative of Zimmer's cross-country journey and a series of revelations about the guilty secret that warped Mann's life, changing him from an ambitious artist to a reclusive genius living in a self-contained world.

Packed with narrative pleasures -- most notably the detailed analyses of Mann's films, descriptions so precise and thoroughly real it's difficult to believe the films don't actually exist -- The Book of Illusions is an intelligent, elegantly written novel that displays Auster's prodigious talent for creating dark atmosphere and exposing the mysterious connections between art and life. Bill Sheehan

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Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
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6.16(w) x 8.34(h) x 1.12(d)

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Everyone thought he was dead. When my book about his films was published in 1988, Hector Mann had not been heard from in almost sixty years. Except for a handful of historians and old-time movie buffs, few people seemed to know that he had ever existed. Double or Nothing, the last of the twelve two-reel comedies he made at the end of the silent era, was released on November 23, 1928. Two months later, without saying good-bye to any of his friends or associates, without leaving behind a letter or informing anyone of his plans, he walked out of his rented house on North Orange Drive and was never seen again. His blue DeSoto was parked in the garage; the lease on the property was good for another three months; the rent had been paid in full. There was food in the kitchen, whiskey in the liquor cabinet, and not a single article of Hector's clothing was missing from the bedroom drawers. According to the Los Angeles Herald Express of January 18, 1929, it looked as though he had stepped out for a short walk and would be returning at any moment. But he didn't return, and from that point on it was as if Hector Mann had vanished from the face of the earth.

For several ears following his disappearance, various stories and rumors circulated about what had happened to him, but none of these conjectures ever amounted to anything.  The most plausible ones -- that he had committed suicide, or fallen victim to foul play -- could neither be proved nor disproved, since no body was ever recovered.  Other accounts of Hector's fate were more imaginative, more hopeful, more in keeping with the romantic implications of such a case.  In one, he had returned to his native Argentina and was now the owner of a small provincial circus.  In another, he had joined the Communist Party and was working under an assumed name as an organizer among the dairy workers in Utica, NY.   In still another,  he was riding the rails as a Depression hobo.  If Hector had been a bigger star, the stories no doubt would have persisted.  He would have lived on in the things that were said about him, gradually turning into one of those symbolic figures who inhabit the nether zones of collective memory, a representative of youth and hope and the devilish twists of fortune.  But none of that happened, for the fact was that Hector was only just beginning to make his mark in Hollywood when his career ended. He had come too late to exploit his talents fully, and he hadn't stayed long enough to leave a lasting impression of who he was or what he could do.  A few more years went by, and little by little people stopped thinking about him.  By 1932 or 1933, Hector belonged to an extinct universe, and if there were any traces of him left, it was only as a footnote in some obscure book that no one bothered to read anymore.  The movies talked now, and the flickering dumb shows of the past were forgotten.  No more clowns, no more pantomimists, no more pretty flapper girls dancing to the beat of unheard orchestras.  They had been dead for just a few years, but already they felt prehistoric, like creatures who had roamed the earth when men still lived in caves.

I didn't give much information about Hector's life in my book. The Silent World of Hector Mann was a study of his films, not a biography, and whatever small facts I threw in about his onscreen activities came directly from the standard sources: film encyclopedias, memoirs, histories of early Hollywood. I wrote the book because I wanted to share my enthusiasm for Hector's work. The story of his life was secondary to me, and rather than speculate on what might or might not have happened to him, I stuck to a close reading of the films themselves. Given that he was born in 1900, and given that he had not been seen since 1929, it never would have occurred to me to suggest that Hector Mann was still alive. Dead men don't crawl out from their graves, and as far as I was concerned, only a dead man could have kept himself hidden for that long.

The book was published by the University of Pennsylvania Press eleven years ago this past March. Three months later, just after the first reviews had started to appear in the film quarterlies and academic journals, a letter turned up in my mailbox. The envelope was larger and squarer than the ones commonly sold in stores, and because it was made of thick, expensive paper, my initial response was to think there might be a wedding invitation or a birth announcement inside. My name and address were written out across the front in an elegant, curling script. If the writing wasn't that of a professional calligrapher, it no doubt came from someone who believed in the virtues of graceful penmanship, a person who had been schooled in the old academies of etiquette and social decorum. The stamp was postmarked Albuquerque, New Mexico, but the return address on the back flap showed that the letter had been written somewhere else -- assuming that there was such a place, and assuming that the name of the town was real. Top and bottom, the two lines read: Blue Stone Ranch; Tierra del Sueño, New Mexico. I might have smiled when I saw those words, but I can't remember now.  No name was given, and as I opened the envelope to read the message on the card inside, I caught a faint smell of perfume, the subtlest hint of lavender essence.

 Dear professor Zimmer, the note said.  Hector has read your book and would like to meet you.  Are you interested in paying us a visit?  Yours sincerely, Frieda Spelling (Mrs. Hector Mann).

I read it six or seven times. Then I put it down, walked to the other end of the room, and came back. When I picked up the letter again, I wasn't sure if the words would still be there. Or, if they were there, if they would still be the same words.  I read it six or seven more times, and then, still not sure of anything, dismissed it as a prank. A moment later, I was filled with doubts, and the next moment after that I began to doubt those doubts.  To think one thought meant thinking the opposite thought, and no sooner did that second thought destroy the first thought than a third thought rose up to destroy the second. Not knowing what else to do, I got into my car and drove to the Post office. Every address in America was listed in the zip code directory, and if Tierra del Sueño wasn't there, I could throw away the card and forget all about it. But it was there. I found it in volume one on page 1933, sitting on the line between Tierra Amarilla and Tijeras, a proper town with a post office and its own five-digit number. That didn't make the letter genuine, of course, but at least it gave it an air of credibility, and by the time I returned home, I knew that I would have to answer it. A letter like that can't be ignored. Once you've read it, you know that if you don't take the trouble to sit down and write back, you'll go on thinking about it for the rest of your life.

I haven't kept a copy of my answer, but I remember that I wrote it by hand and tried to make it as short as possible, limiting what I said to just a few sentences. Without giving it much thought, I found myself adopting the flat, cryptic style of the letter I had received.  I felt less exposed that way, less likely to be taken as a fool by the person who had masterminded the prank -- if indeed it was a prank. Give or take a word or two, my response went something like this: Dear Frieda Spelling.  I would like to meet Hector Mann. But how can I be sure he's alive?  To the best of my  knowledge, he hasn't been seen in more than a half century.  Please provide details. Respectfully yours, David Zimmer.

We all want to believe in impossible things, I suppose, to persuade ourselves that miracles can happen.  Considering that I was the author of the only book ever written on Hector Mann, it probably made sense that someone would think I'd jump at the chance to believe he was still alive.  But I wasn't in the mood to jump.  Or at least I didn't think I was.  My book had been born out of a great sorrow, and now that that book was behind me, the sorrow was still there. Writing about comedy had been no more than a pretext, an odd form of  medicine that I had swallowed every day for over a year on the off chance that it would dull the pain inside me. To some  extent, it did.  But Frieda Spelling (or whoever was posing as Frieda Spelling) couldn't have known that. She couldn't have known that on June 7, 1985, just one week short of my tenth wedding anniversary, my wife and two sons had been killed in a plane crash. She might have seen that the book was dedicated to them (For Helen, Todd, and Marco -- In Memory), but those names couldn't have meant anything to her, and even if she had guessed their importance to the author, she couldn't have known that for him those names stood for everything that had any meaning in life -- and that when the thirty-six-year-old Helen and the seven-year-old Todd and the four-year-old Marco had died, most of him had died along with them.

Copyright © 2002 Paul Auster

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The Book of Illusions 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 13 reviews.
FocoProject More than 1 year ago
A bit of an old school read here, and by old school I mean, more mid 20th Century, not freaking Shakespeare, but you can definitely tell in the way tell in the way this book unfolds. That is not necessarily a bad thing, but it does have a bit of the slower pace that the older folks may feel more comfortable with and that the younger folks might get frustrated at. That is not a bad thing, you just need to learn to hone your patience and focus¿grasshoppah!

The story here is about a dude that is pretty much in the dumps. His wife and kids are dead, literally all of them left his life in the same tragic accident and he has figured that alcohol poisoning over the months will be the solution to his problems. That is until he decides to throw himself head first into a research assignment regarding an actor/director of the silent era, who is pretty much unknown. Working on it not because he is interested, but because he is postponing putting the bullet to his head by doing this, the dude pretty much puts together the kick-ass-most book regarding the subject. And wouldn¿t you know it, this man, whom they all thought was dead, given his mysterious disappearance, happens to be alive¿except¿well, now he is really dying. And then things really get good!

A very fun read, this one, but as I said, a bit old school in feel, sort of like reading Camus. Not that they have anything in common (or maybe they do and my ignoramus self does not realize it), but that is how it sort of felt, like reading The Plague all over again. The story unfolds sort of in two, the story of the dude writing the book and dealing with¿dammit I should just use their actual names. The dude is henceforth known as David and he is writing a book about Hector Mann, who was believed dead. And so you are getting two stories here for the price of one, the one in the present dealing with David and old Hector and the one in the past that examines the enigma that is young Hector and the interesting and unique life he has led. All in all a very worthwhile read, which may not have all the thrills you may want from a book, but gives an interesting insight on us humans and grief¿my only complaint, was the predictability on the love thing that happens between David and what¿sherface¿I saw it coming a mile away.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Dear reader, I love Paul Auster. I just finished reading all off his novels. I wish I could meet him once and ask him questions. If something I am happy for that I speak English (my English is not to great. From my six years living in New York) is so I can read Paul Auster in the original version of the books words exactly as he wrote them. It was the best I ever got from my English learning experience. I can¿t say which novel I liked the most because every time I started a new one I found better than the last one. Maybe if I decide to read them again I¿ll do it in chronological order and see what happens. I can¿t wait for Brooklyn Foleys to came out. Here Paul, you have got one more typical fan of yours. Forever. Alejandro.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I wanted this book to go on forever. The descriptions of the movies and their maker were so real, as if you could go find them and see them. This book was a true work of art. BRAVO!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I had pneumonia late last year, and, during those moments of extreme chill and fever, I picked this one up and managed to work my way through it in, oh, about a day or so. The story appealled to me as a fan of silent comedians, particularly Buster Keaton, and I had expected to find some parallel of that within this book. That is, the triumphs and treacheries that seep into a star's life between one film and another. And in a way, I guess I got what I expected, but there was so much more. In his book, Auster unwinds an odyssey within an odyssey Zimmer's story, and that of Hector Mann. Sad and surreal, this is definitely one worth picking up.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is the first book by Paul Auster that I have read. The title grabbed my attention, and when I found out that a lot of the action centered around a silent film comedian--I'm a huge Buster Keaton fan--I had to pick it up. I had a fever when I read it, so I can't really account for my emotional attachment. It was dark, and yet I couldn't put it down. It jibed with some of my personal philosophies, and yet it resonated with them in other places. Well thought out, and surprisingly epic for something so short. I reccomend this book, and that it's readers never contract pneumonia.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a perplexing book and completely different from the author's recent 'The Brooklyn Follies' (which is what prompted me to pick up more of his books). While I feel that some of the pages seem redundant and unnecessary, the story is really engrossing and I found myself unable to put it down. The story is written in such a way that the reader will find him/herself on a dramatic rollercoaster ride inside the head of the main character, Dr. David Zimmer. A really great read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Paul Auster writes a masterful tale about a silent film star who dissappears from the scene following a bizarre turn of events, and the writer, a mournful college professor whose curiosity in this dissappearence allows him to learn to live life again. Anyone who likes good, intelligent writing will enjoy this suspenceful and heartening tale. The characters are fascinating and the take on how an artist views his own work within a context of overwhelming guilt is both tragic and powerfully real. By the end of the book one wishes the characters in this work of fiction were real and could be more fully experienced. BRAVO!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Most avid readers, I think, secretly harbor the idea that they could write a successful novel. After reading this book, I am not so sure. The plot development, the flashback references, the circular twists all show the talent of the author. It is hard to believe that the films that are a central part of the story are not real. I am no film buff, but this is a must read for anyone who appreciates an author who did his homework.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Auster ought to be ashamed of himself. This book is such an obvious steal from Jonathan Carroll's wonderful novel THE LAND OF LAUGHS that it is embarrassing. Structurally, plot, characters... it is astonishing that Auster would have the chutzpah to do something this brazen at this point in his career. Not to mention his book is nowhere near as compelling and thought provoking as Carroll's earlier marvel. Raed this and then THE LAND OF LAUGHS and you'll see for yourself. Auster and Carroll have often been compared throughout their interesting careers and when you read these two books you'll see why. For my money, Carroll has always come out the clear victor.