The patron saint of literary Brooklyn
Remembering a great writer
Paul Benjamin Auster, known as “the patron saint of literary Brooklyn,” according to The New York Times, and “literary Brooklyn’s first great pinup,” according to the Guardian, passed away at the age of 77.
Before Brooklyn became a symbol for aspiring young novelists, Paul Auster claimed it as his own with his breakthrough collection, “The New York Trilogy,” which was first published in 1987.
Interestingly, the trilogy’s main story, “City of Glass,” was rejected 17 times before it finally became a novel in 1985. A prolific writer, Paul averaged a book a year until his last novel ‘’Baumgartner,’’ about an octogenarian author, was published at the end of last year.
Besides novels, Paul wrote non-fiction, translations, poetry and screenplays, showing remarkable versatility, curiosity, ambition and talent.
Paul Auster’s memoirs comprise three notable works. “The Invention of Solitude” (1982) is a reflection on fatherhood after his father’s passing. “Hand to Mouth” (1997) recounts his experiences as a struggling young writer. Lastly, “Winter Journal” (2012) delves into the challenges of aging and physical decline.
During the 1990s, Auster wrote three films: “Smoke,” “Blue in the Face,” and “Lulu on the Bridge.”
He has been described as one of the most innovative American writers of his generation. Some of his notable works include “Moon Palace” (1989), “The Music of Chance” (1990), and “The Book of Illusions” (2002).
In 1991, the French awarded him the Order of Arts and Letters. In America, he was part of a literary elite and had close friendships with Don DeLillo, Peter Carey, and Salman Rushdie. But it was perhaps Orhan Pamuk who described him best when he said, “He was a person of his own. I have a lot of respect and admiration for his work.”
I do too.
I cannot help but respect the wisdom when, as a young writer in the late 70s, he wrote; “I’ve always wanted to write what to me is beautiful, true and good … but I’m also interested in inventing new ways to tell stories. I wanted to turn everything inside out.”
And, according to many, it was exactly what he did when he “married” European post-modernism with American noir. Not that it was easy. The New Yorker critic James Wood accused him of “peddling a B-movie atmosphere.’’
Nevertheless, in 2017, Paul Auster’s novel “4321” was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and his subjects of loss, grief and identity remain widely admired.
Another aspect of his writing I both admire and relate to is writing in longhand. Yes, Paul Auster wrote “one paragraph at a time,” always starting in longhand in his beloved notebook with quadrille lines.
He told the Paris Review: “Every book begins with the first sentence and then I push on until I’ve reached the last. Always in sequence, a paragraph at a time.” Once he was happy with the paragraph, he would type it up on the Olympia typewriter and called the act of typing “reading with my fingers,” revising and editing as he went along.
When I first learned of his aversion to keyboards, which have always “intimidated me,” and the description of a pen as a “much more primitive instrument,” I almost jumped for joy! Yes, it isn’t just me who feels that way!
‘’You feel that the words are coming out of your body, and then you dig the words into the page. Writing has always had that tactile quality for me. It’s a physical,” he wrote, and I remain eternally grateful he did.
Despite the strange looks I get whenever I claim that the decline in quality of writing is directly proportional to the increase in keyboards and internet connections. I am not saying that we should ditch keyboards, even if could, only that they may not be best suited to the writing that requires that deeply personal, visceral connection.
Perhaps some of it might be attributed to, “so many strange things have happened to me in my life, so many unexpected and improbable events, I’m no longer certain that I know what reality is anymore.” On that too — I can relate.
Only, unlike Paul Auster, I have never witnessed anyone being struck by lightning. He was only 14, when, on a camping trip, the boy next to him was struck by lightning. Standing next to a boy “who was essentially murdered by the gods changed my whole view of the world”, Paul said the said last year, in one of his last interviews.
For Auster, writing was an act of faith, and one which he continued to serve right up until the end. “You make a pact with yourself to tell the truth and you’d rather cut off your right arm than break that promise.”
He indeed did.
Thank you for reading.
