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A review by chrissie_whitley
4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster
5.0
Some of my best reading experiences have been because I'm simply aiming to clear off my utterly ridiculous backlist of to-read books. Such is the case for Paul Auster's 4 3 2 1. This book has served as an opener on my electronically managed library wishlist for years — so long has it existed at the top of the list (because of its numerically emblazoned title and my library's list-sorting is resolutely alphabetical), that only recently did I realize I was so accustomed to its presence I had come to overlook it entirely. And so, I placed it on hold to have it transported through the pathways of my library's system from the main branch where it lives to my closer, smaller branch.
I remembered nothing about why I even had it on my list to begin with or how it came to be there. No idea what struck me about the summary or recommendation at the time it was added. But it was barely a toddler of a book, having been published at the end of January 2017 — and existing within my realm less than a year later . . . coming to my attention in some way around September of its release year. So, into this giant book — didn't realize it was quite the doorstopper until I picked it up — I dove, unaware of even the basic premise. And weeks later, I have finally emerged — and find myself missing Archibald Isaac Ferguson already. All four of him.
As blind as I went into this, it is not a completely necessary thing to do. The basic premise is an exploration of a young man whose identity is split into three other identical young men. Not really a Sliding Doors structure, where one little thing causes these different timelines to branch off with their own events. No, it's more like these are completely separate Archies — like a multiverse. Almost like acknowledging that there are only four instances where circumstances converge to allow for Archie's birth. Multiverse meets capital-L, capital-F Literary Fiction.
The lead up to Archie's father's father arriving in the United States, a Russian Jew whose last name disappears and is bumblingly given a new name of Ichabod Ferguson at Ellis Island, and Archie's parents meeting is the opening to the book. From there, Auster branches out with each variant of Archie (Auster has Archie refer to himself as Ferguson throughout, but all the people in his life call him Archie) bunched up next to the others in chapters that are broken down by parts. For instance, Chapter 1 is broken down to be Chapters 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, and 1.4. Each Archie maintains the slot assigned as the novel moves forward, so that Archie-1 always exists as X.1 for each subsequent chapter. Like versions of software, making it easy (if it becomes necessary) to refer back to a previous version before the current update.
So the four Archibalds belong to the same parents, exist in the same bodies, and share the same genetic makeup. But each Archibald exists in a different timeline and after moving from the New York apartment where he's born, each Archie lives in a different New Jersey suburb, going to a different set of schools, and existing in his own set of circumstances.
Auster writes all the timelines concurrently, so that all four segments of the first chapter roughly cover Ferguson's life over the same lapse of time. And as one division of one Ferguson ends to bleed through later in the book and meanwhile switch to another Ferguson, I found myself simultaneously mourning the momentary loss of the previous, while gently anticipating the arrival of the upcoming.
It was easy in the beginning, as the introductions to each Ferguson are necessarily laid out, to get a bit muddled, the lines between quadruple Fergusons stays out of focus — except the one currently being read. Other than a couple of key factors, even as the novel progresses, it's hard to separate them properly and remember which Ferguson did this or that. But after trying so hard for the first quarter of the book, and following each Ferguson through adolescence, the realization was apparent. It does not matter; there is only one now, only one present — and it is just whichever road the current Ferguson is on.
As an epic coming-of-age story, the sheer amount of life that exists in this novel is glorious. Not only is Ferguson a different Ferguson in each iteration, but so are all the people in his life — and while there are some fixed characters who float into his life regardless of the version, there are notable differences, notable absences, that suggest that every other person is also co-existing in their own altered version of themselves. It is breathtakingly beautiful in that way.
Ferguson is adorable as a child — loving and aching to be loved. He's curious and wondrous. College-age Ferguson eats up a good portion of the novel, and the timeline slows down to accommodate. Here he's at his most mindful: vividly aware of current events, impressed by an exhaustive list of authors and poets and thinkers and filmmakers, and yet still achingly introspective. At different times, Ferguson can exist at his most self-destructive (why can you not slap someone when they're hiding in the pages of a book?). There's even a nod to this within the text itself, ". . . but as the reader will have observed by now, Ferguson did not always act in his own best interests." But Ferguson as a young adolescent, up to age 14 or so, seems to be my favorite. At this age, he's his most thoughtful, most impressionable, and his most pure version of his core self. While that does make it harder to keep them separate while reading, after having finished the book, I am reminded that it doesn't really matter.
Auster seems to favor nature over nurture, at least when imagining Ferguson. For although Ferguson's circumstances will change, he is basically the same core being. One may favor basketball while another dearly loves playing baseball, one becomes a journalist while another a novelist, but his central self is so firmly established that I found solace in this idea when thinking about my own what ifs of childhood.
Apparently this masterpiece is quite different from the typical Auster. Having never even come across his name before — how that's possible, I have no idea — I was not subject to any expectations coming into this novel. (Clearly none at all, given that I didn't even have a clue about the story itself.) Auster adopts a Woolfian delivery of long, meandering sentences. I loved them — strong enough to easily follow the thought, and stretched out farther than flimsier sentences could stand. The writing was a river of ideas, flowing through the novel, connecting each ocean called Ferguson to the others.
I've already returned my library copy and ordered a personal hardcover replacement. Given the structure of the novel, with my next reread I think I'd like to attack its mutant form and read each Ferguson individually. The temptation was certainly there to do that with the first read, but I am so glad I didn't — the flow, the charm, the devastation, and the incredible sense of time and place, especially when you take into account all the astounding world events that are woven so firmly into all the stories, would've been lost and the experience would've been completely changed. As it was, 4 3 2 1 broke my heart only to refill it, to break it again, and then refill it once more, in a ceaseless cycle of life, sur papier.
I remembered nothing about why I even had it on my list to begin with or how it came to be there. No idea what struck me about the summary or recommendation at the time it was added. But it was barely a toddler of a book, having been published at the end of January 2017 — and existing within my realm less than a year later . . . coming to my attention in some way around September of its release year. So, into this giant book — didn't realize it was quite the doorstopper until I picked it up — I dove, unaware of even the basic premise. And weeks later, I have finally emerged — and find myself missing Archibald Isaac Ferguson already. All four of him.
"Everything solid for a time, and then the sun comes up one morning and the world begins to melt."
As blind as I went into this, it is not a completely necessary thing to do. The basic premise is an exploration of a young man whose identity is split into three other identical young men. Not really a Sliding Doors structure, where one little thing causes these different timelines to branch off with their own events. No, it's more like these are completely separate Archies — like a multiverse. Almost like acknowledging that there are only four instances where circumstances converge to allow for Archie's birth. Multiverse meets capital-L, capital-F Literary Fiction.
The lead up to Archie's father's father arriving in the United States, a Russian Jew whose last name disappears and is bumblingly given a new name of Ichabod Ferguson at Ellis Island, and Archie's parents meeting is the opening to the book. From there, Auster branches out with each variant of Archie (Auster has Archie refer to himself as Ferguson throughout, but all the people in his life call him Archie) bunched up next to the others in chapters that are broken down by parts. For instance, Chapter 1 is broken down to be Chapters 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, and 1.4. Each Archie maintains the slot assigned as the novel moves forward, so that Archie-1 always exists as X.1 for each subsequent chapter. Like versions of software, making it easy (if it becomes necessary) to refer back to a previous version before the current update.
So the four Archibalds belong to the same parents, exist in the same bodies, and share the same genetic makeup. But each Archibald exists in a different timeline and after moving from the New York apartment where he's born, each Archie lives in a different New Jersey suburb, going to a different set of schools, and existing in his own set of circumstances.
Auster writes all the timelines concurrently, so that all four segments of the first chapter roughly cover Ferguson's life over the same lapse of time. And as one division of one Ferguson ends to bleed through later in the book and meanwhile switch to another Ferguson, I found myself simultaneously mourning the momentary loss of the previous, while gently anticipating the arrival of the upcoming.
"Memories are not continuous. They jump around from place to place and vault over large swaths of time with many gaps in between, and because of what my stepbrother calls this quantum effect, the multiple and often contradictory stories to be found in the scarlet notebook do not form a continuous narrative. Rather, they tend to unfold as dreams do—which is to say, with a logic that is not always readily apparent."
It was easy in the beginning, as the introductions to each Ferguson are necessarily laid out, to get a bit muddled, the lines between quadruple Fergusons stays out of focus — except the one currently being read. Other than a couple of key factors, even as the novel progresses, it's hard to separate them properly and remember which Ferguson did this or that. But after trying so hard for the first quarter of the book, and following each Ferguson through adolescence, the realization was apparent. It does not matter; there is only one now, only one present — and it is just whichever road the current Ferguson is on.
"The world was churning. All things everywhere were in flux."
As an epic coming-of-age story, the sheer amount of life that exists in this novel is glorious. Not only is Ferguson a different Ferguson in each iteration, but so are all the people in his life — and while there are some fixed characters who float into his life regardless of the version, there are notable differences, notable absences, that suggest that every other person is also co-existing in their own altered version of themselves. It is breathtakingly beautiful in that way.
Ferguson is adorable as a child — loving and aching to be loved. He's curious and wondrous. College-age Ferguson eats up a good portion of the novel, and the timeline slows down to accommodate. Here he's at his most mindful: vividly aware of current events, impressed by an exhaustive list of authors and poets and thinkers and filmmakers, and yet still achingly introspective. At different times, Ferguson can exist at his most self-destructive (why can you not slap someone when they're hiding in the pages of a book?). There's even a nod to this within the text itself, ". . . but as the reader will have observed by now, Ferguson did not always act in his own best interests." But Ferguson as a young adolescent, up to age 14 or so, seems to be my favorite. At this age, he's his most thoughtful, most impressionable, and his most pure version of his core self. While that does make it harder to keep them separate while reading, after having finished the book, I am reminded that it doesn't really matter.
Auster seems to favor nature over nurture, at least when imagining Ferguson. For although Ferguson's circumstances will change, he is basically the same core being. One may favor basketball while another dearly loves playing baseball, one becomes a journalist while another a novelist, but his central self is so firmly established that I found solace in this idea when thinking about my own what ifs of childhood.
". . . and what did it mean to be himself anyway, he wondered, he had several selves inside him, even many selves, a strong self and a weak self, a thoughtful self and an impulsive self, a generous self and a selfish self, so many different selves that in the end he was as large as everyone or as small as no one, and if that was true for him, then it had to be true for everyone else as well, meaning that everyone was everyone and no one at the same time . . . ."
Apparently this masterpiece is quite different from the typical Auster. Having never even come across his name before — how that's possible, I have no idea — I was not subject to any expectations coming into this novel. (Clearly none at all, given that I didn't even have a clue about the story itself.) Auster adopts a Woolfian delivery of long, meandering sentences. I loved them — strong enough to easily follow the thought, and stretched out farther than flimsier sentences could stand. The writing was a river of ideas, flowing through the novel, connecting each ocean called Ferguson to the others.
I've already returned my library copy and ordered a personal hardcover replacement. Given the structure of the novel, with my next reread I think I'd like to attack its mutant form and read each Ferguson individually. The temptation was certainly there to do that with the first read, but I am so glad I didn't — the flow, the charm, the devastation, and the incredible sense of time and place, especially when you take into account all the astounding world events that are woven so firmly into all the stories, would've been lost and the experience would've been completely changed. As it was, 4 3 2 1 broke my heart only to refill it, to break it again, and then refill it once more, in a ceaseless cycle of life, sur papier.
"The gods looked down from their mountain and shrugged."