I just finished reading Paul Auster's "Ghosts", the second part of his New York Trilogy. I can only liken it to Vonegut, without the dark humor. Vonegut's world view is that of a black comedy, while Auster's seem more in line with a black hole. Ghosts is a short story about a detective hired to watch over another man for an undetermined amount of time. No clues are given as to why he should be watching this man, he must merely keep him under surveillance until further notified. He must write a weekly report and he receives a weekly check for his services. The days turn to weeks, and the weeks to months and still nothing happens. The man he is observing seems normal enough if not quite lonely. In the end, to me, the story ends up being a microcosm of our everyday lives consisting of mundane activities, trying to earn a paycheck, and in the end trying to figure out what the story is all about. Our lives, such as this short story, only means what we want it to. The only story line there is is the one we create, and the end... well we already know how it ends. Life is absurd, and there's really no way around it. It is what it is, shit happens, go with the flow... however you want to say it, life is absurd. You already know it... and the irony... none of seem to be able to stop looking for the meaning of it all. Absurd.
