I had been looking forward to this book ever since I read an excerpt published in the New Yorker: Werner Herzog on the Mysteries of Pittsburgh. I’m happy to say that the rest of Herzog’s autobiography is every bit as interesting as you would expect. Even if only half of the stories he relates are true (in the traditional sense, rather than Herzog’s idea of “ecstatic truth”), it’s safe to say that the man has lived a very full life. He has relentlessly pursued his art, as evidenced by his prolific body of work. It is quite admirable.
I haven’t seen many of Herzog’s films, but after reading what went into making them — the blood, illness, and near-death experiences — I feel like I’ve got some catching up to do.