The third installment of this book is The Locked Room. I do not think this third “part” is on par with the previous two works. I can appreciate the twists of the storylines, the exploration of various themes, and the deconstruction of characters in the previous two pieces in this book, but this last was tedious. Beyond that, the self-referential circling back with little hints or names seemed forced and pointless.
Like the other two pieces, The Locked Room is postmodern metafiction wearing the costume of a noir detective story. Overall, the story explores the psychological control that a memory/character has over another character. Both characters are, in some way, authors. So, just like the previous pieces, the novel attempts to look at facets of the act of writing and of being an author. Again, we see that an author is comparable to a detective.
In this novel, the meta parts of the metafiction play with concepts of identity, transference, and despair. The main character is again isolated. Through this isolation, we see how the effects of searching for the identity of the other causes the loss of identity of self. The narrator instantiates himself in the character Fanshawe’s life at the behest of Fanshawe. This definitely improves the narrator’s life in several ways (a ready-made family, significant monetary income, a modicum of fame). However, this also causes the narrator to slip further away from himself as the hero-worship he had for Fanshawe develops into resentment.
I didn’t like much of this novel. It definitely goes on too long. About one hundred pages could be chopped from this thing without any damage really being done. Furthermore, the little inclusions of “Henry Dark” and “Quinn” and the “red notebook” are interesting because authors do tend to fixate on certain concepts/names. They work them and rewrite them and wrestle with them until they finally get to the story intended for them. However, until the story is “great,” authors use and re-use little things like this. So if Auster has thrown in these tidbits to portray another aspect of the art of writing and of authorship, it seems acceptable. If he has thrown them into the novel just to reference the previous segments and to make the novel seem edgy and circular, then it is a complete failure. The tactic is too obvious and stupid.
The novel drags on. Noir detective fiction should be very suspenseful, mysterious, and psychological. But by that last term I mean that there ought to be building tension from the unknowns. The unknown parts of the story are the parts that make such stories noir. Instead, most of this novel is hero-worship and drooling slobber over the flat, uninteresting female character. The “psychological factor” in this novel is, then, the obsession that develops between the two authors. To me, this only made the narrator insufferable and ridiculous.
At the end of the novel, we do not really have any clue why any of this happened. If this was an attempt to explore the identity/transference between authors and characters, it was no big thing. There was no huge exploration, only a few steps taken in that direction. I feel this could have been done a lot better with a lot more potency. But instead, honestly, it just came out wimpy and morose.
As in the previous parts, the main character is isolated and he deconstucts. He loses everything, seemingly even his mind. He turns to a less clean-cut lifestyle for a month as he roams France like a vagabond. He spends his time in seedy places with people of ill-repute. We are led to believe this is because his efforts in author-detecting about Fanshawe have come to naught. However, throughout the novel, we are given hints and glimpses that this darkness and wretchedness already lies inside the narrator and Fanshawe and Paris are what finally cause these characteristics to appear. The key point for me was that I did not care. It felt like a setup and a forced shift in the novel. And at the end, it changes nothing, the outcome is as bland and mundane as could be.
Honestly, this part heavily reminded me of things that Nabokov was doing in his novel Despair. And at some points, I felt like Auster was basically ripping off Nabokov. Now, Despair is not my favorite novel, but it certainly does all of this stuff better and stronger than Auster’s third segment here. Definitely recommend to readers who are interested in this to compare these two works.
So, this final part can only be given two stars. But, averaged with the previous parts, that still gives this whole “trilogy” a 3 star rating. Totally acceptable reading. I would probably tell folks the first two parts are recommended while the third is entirely optional. I do not feel it added anything to what Auster was trying to accomplish or added any new ideas to the themes he was exploring.