When I was at college, I discovered Paul Auster's entire work in a different manner. I began reading Leviathan on a whim, but I did not enjoy it. I re-read The New York Trilogy, which I had loved the previous time round, and believed it was of high quality.
Auster is a strange author, and he is bizarre in a way that no other person I've encountered has ever been odd. He's playful yet also humourless, and he'll never allow any of his characters to laugh, yet his textual content unfolds gracefully while being stripped of a lot in the finest sense of character.
Magritte jogs my memory, in a method, of Magritte, although not simply in the most pedestrian way. That is not a knock on him – it is part of the effect. Auster characters have strange experiences, although they only describe their adventures during a grocery store visit.