It’s the allure of wondering how one’s life might have turned out, might have transpired, had things been just a little bit different; not only from the outset, but along the way too, minor changes in circumstance that could have spun one’s life in an entirely different direction. Though we can never really entertain such speculation in any deep sense — since those what-ifs inevitably hang behind an opaque curtain of which we cannot peer behind — it’s a seductively enticing thought. In 4 3 2 1, Paul Auster’s 866-page saga of Archibald Isaac Ferguson, this kind of philosophical, identity-musing is everywhere on display.
4 3 2 1 is Auster’s first novel in a full seven years, and considering its length we can understand why. Auster gives us the long, multidimensional story of Archie Ferguson, born in 1943, to Stanley and Rose Ferguson. This is a fact, and never changes through the course of the novel. But beyond Archie’s birthdate and some other elemental features of the very young Ferguson’s life, the four Fergusons which populate the pages of the novel differ considerably.
The origins of Ferguson’s full name hint at the novel’s motifs of chance and the whimsicality of things beyond our control. When Archie’s grandfather arrives in America, in 1900, there’s a mishap when he tries to deliver his newly thought-up name to the immigration officer. And so, “Isaac Reznikoff” becomes “Ichabod Ferguson,” rather than the more desirable “Rockefeller.” Thus it is that long before Archie was conceived — long before his parents had even met — a twist of fate had already been set in motion.
In any case, the four different Fergusons experience their boyhoods and adolescent years in the 1950s and ’60s, primarily in either New York or New Jersey. Ferguson’s father, a practical and hardworking man of few words, owns 3 Brothers Home World, an electronics store, with his two brothers as main employees. Ferguson’s mother is more outspoken and possesses an artsy side, specifically for photography. Ferguson’s home — for each of the four Fergusons — is a generally pleasant place.
But conflict and tragedy are never absent from the picture, and the lives of the four Fergusons soon diverge. After 3 Brothers Home World takes a hit, things are never the same. Each of the four Ferguson scenarios unwind the consequences differently, and from that point forward the Fergusons’ lives continually go their distinct ways. Some of the supporting characters are present in all of the Ferguson scenarios—that is, Fergusons 1, 2, 3, and 4, which is how each chapter is broken down—like Aunt Mildred, the bookish, intellectual sister of Ferguson’s mother, who serves as a kind of distant tutor and guide to Ferguson. There is also Ferguson’s mother, a mainstay in his life, and a source of comfort and companionship, especially after loss. Aside from central characters, there’s a host of aunts and uncles, cousins and step-cousins, boyfriends and girlfriends, all of whom experience joys and plights of their own, and whose lives intersect—sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly—with Ferguson’s.
On top of family drama, the 1950s and ’60s in which Ferguson grows up is a time of deep unrest in America—racism, the Vietnam War, campus riots and political assassinations, warring groups which seems only to result in a perpetual war of hate and vengeance. Each of the Fergusons gets caught up in the turmoil in one way or another, dealing with the messiness of life while experiencing college or heading towards manhood.
And so it is that all of the above coalesces into an explosive, eventful, and emotional period of growing up for each Ferguson. The result is a vast playground of life in which Auster is able to capture a vibrant world of human beings living in a less-than-perfect universe. Some of the finest parts of the novel take place when Auster merges the political tensions of the time with the messy inner-lives of the characters.
But the novel has its share of weaknesses. While Auster’s prose can be beautiful and moving, it can also be ceaseless and repetitive—especially when the content is so tangential to the story that indifference sets in. There’s also the loosely related issue of 4 3 2 1’s heavy autobiographical element: a presence so strong that in places it feels like Auster is either flat out talking to us about art and reading and writing, etc., or only lightly recanvassing scenes from previous books. Indeed readers of Auster’s non-fiction, including Winter Journal, Hand to Mouth, and Report from the Interior, will likely find themselves wondering—until it dawns on them—why more than a few passages in 4 3 2 1 seem so very, very familiar. Auster has clearly put himself into this novel.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and there’s hardly an official contract between writer and reader: Auster is free to write whatever he wants and however he wants. But the reader’s patience is sure to be tested, and none more so than when it’s the dithering narration—not profundity or complexity—that does the testing. Granted, Auster and his narrators have a lot to say. This is a novel about life, after all, and all its marvelous details. But even so the book’s 866-page length can’t be justified, and the story simply goes for too long.
4 3 2 1 is a clever book and a mildly thought-provoking one. But Paul Auster’s gargantuan new novel often feels flat and overwrought. Even with Auster’s inventiveness and the sparks of energetic prose which sometimes grace the pages, it never achieves the depth it feels like its striving for. Ultimately 4 3 2 1 is a disappointingly dull tome that never makes it beyond (relatively) insipid ideas.
Spectatio 