Paul Auster writes what at first sight seem to be classic detective novels set in the 1940s. All the usual clichees are there - the lone wolf detective, the shabby suroundings, the myterious clients and their enigmatic communications. Still, all the cases develop in an unexpected way: They drag on and on, peetering out and dissolving into nothing. But not before they absorb the detective's life completely, raising questions about identity, truth, and meaning, which are generally left open and unresolved.

These novels are more philospophical than criminal – and not the stuff to lighten up the reader's life. They raise questions, bur rarely give answers. They provide food for thought but leave the reader feeling hungry for insight.