City of glass

Sto usando la scusa della mia prima visita a New York per rileggermi la Trilogia di New York, questa volta in inglese.
Iniziando City of glass ho pensato che questa era la quarta o quinta volta che lo leggevo (fra traduzione italiana, fumetto (prima in spagnolo poi in italiano)), ma che non ricordavo esattamente quell’incipit lì (e anche le pagine successive sono una sorpresa grande quasi quanto la prima volta).

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone tinging three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. Much late, when he was able to think about the things that happened to him, he would conclude that nothing was real except chance. But that was much later. In the beginning, there was simply the event and its consequences. Whether it might have turned out differently, or whether it was all predetermined with the first word that came from the stranger’s mouth, is not the question. The question is the story itself, and whether or not it means something is not for the story to tell.

In pratica Auster, avrebbe quasi potuto fermarsi qui e non scrivere i successivi diciassette romanzi.
Per fortuna non l’ha fatto.