Reading Paul Auster

Somehow Auster's books always set an ephemeral, almost unreal mood, making me feel like every thought, every motion is meaningful and even necessary in the great scheme of things.

Feeling like I need to be in Berlin, or New York, or London, on an unwelcoming winter night, feeling my cheeks and nose numb from the cold, sitting in a nearly empty bar with a few strangers, feeling the snow on my clothes turn to damp, then dry.

I have read a lot until I finished my degree. Now, with a few years' real-life experience, I feel like all these books, all that I thought I knew, is now irrelevant, because I am now a different person, who will need to re-acquire, reclaim the knowledge rendered useless by time.

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