R.I..P. Paul Auster

A eulogy for the late, great author, Paul Auster

Paul Auster has died. He was 77. The author, poet, and literary critic was prolific, and more often than not brilliant.

His bibliography stretches wide, across memoir, novels, translations, essays, poetry, screenplays, journals, and letters.

I have read only a handful of his books, but they all made an indelible mark, I haver several others lined up to read one day. News like this always moves books like those closer to to the top of the pile, right?

When I was at exactly the right age — having read about Auster, but not read him, I took a chance on his then brand-new memoir, Hand To Mouth. It tells the story of struggle, of hunkering down deep to make it work, a young writer on the prowl, desperate for publication, and acknowledgement, but alongside that just to live. I was delusional, so it was utterly inspirational! I read it and thought only of how similar my struggle was (I had no struggle whatsoever, certainly not at that point). But I loved the book, his brilliant writing, and the amazing appendices which featured a whole hokey spy/detective-y novel he’d written under a pen-name for cash. And a baseball card-game he was convinced was his million-dollar ticket. (Spoiler alert: It wasn’t).

I also read his poetry and essays, and loved his deep knowledge of classical studies, and the romantic poets. Even if I couldn’t always entirely understand or keep up. But again, it was utterly inspiring.

Flash forward a few years, and his Travels in the Scriptorium, a mini but meta text, was the first book I ever reviewed in print; at least properly. The Sunday Star Times as I recall. By then, I’d read a few Auster books, and had loved his movies Smoke, Blue In The Face and Lulu On The Bridge — and I’m pretty sure nobody loved Lulu On The Bridge. For me, it was about the reach of the novelist, the breadth of his talent, and so even if not everything was brilliant, I was always sure he was.

Auster was married twice, both times to brilliant writers. Through knowing his work I came to read the short, short stories of Lydia Davis. One of the most inspirational writers I’ve read in the last decade or so. They were married, briefly, in the 1970s. I only really checked out Davis’ work because of the Auster namecheck. And though that might be belittling of her, I don’t mean it in that way. Their association made me a fan of hers for life now.

Since 1981, Auster was married to Siri Hustvedt, also a brilliant essayist and novelist. And again, I checked out her work due to the connection.

Auster’s screenplays for Smoke and the largely improvised Blue In The Face were the first time I saw film work by a novelist I loved — that was brand new at the time, and written specifically for the screen. (Well, okay, maybe you could count Stephen King, but also not really, in that regard).

There are so many classic Auster titles — The New York Trilogy, The Music of Chance, Mr. Vertigo, The Brooklyn Follies, and Sunset Park. And we’re just scratching the surface. I have a bunch of his books, and a bunch more still to get.

But the one I think most often of, beyond Hand to Mouth, is 1999’s Timbuktu. Narrated by a dog, we follow Mr. Bones as he struggles to come to terms with the death of his homeless master. That book was everything to me. Like so many of the best books, and the best authors, you find them at the right time. Or, more likely they find you.

I’m glad I found Paul Auster. And that his works found me. I’m grateful for them. One of the most inspiring things about him was how prolific he was, and the mark of quality.

He was a living legend of contemporary letters in his time.

R.I.P. Paul Auster.