An eerie sense of familiarity

I left my keys at Laura's house, so I waited for her in the Hilary Step after college, and got stuck into Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster. I re-read Oracle Night recently, whetting my appetite for his uniquely dispassionate oddness.

So far, it's a hall of mirrors, more so still than what I remember of his other works. There's an eerie sense of familiarity to it. Repeated names, ideas, and concepts from his other books given the impression of déjà vu. It is unusualness that reigns, in tone, in subject, in style.

Twenty pages in, I found a bookmark. It was mine, from when I'd started to read the book a year or so ago. Déjà vu indeed! Or rather, déjà lit.