Paul Auster’s New York Tragedy

I first became aware of Paul Auster, who died on April 30, from reading old issues of The Columbia Review when I was a student at the university. He translated French Surrealist poetry and wrote prose fiction, set in a sort of silent-movie cityscape that anticipated his novels and films. He was already established by the time I read him. He was a romantic, bohemian figure, living hand-to-mouth in a French villa with his first wife, Lydia Davis, and trying to coax a living from literary translation. I felt a little bit like I was tracking him then: We both came from New Jersey (like Allen Ginsberg and Philip Roth, he was a proud son of Newark); attended Columbia; and were drawn to French literature. We inhabited the same Morningside Heights world of the early 1970s, with its cranks and cults, mimeographed screeds and tracts. Surely Paul, too, patronized Marlin Café and the Moon Palace. But I didn’t meet him until 20 years later when I washed up in Park Slope — a disorienting experience after 20 years in Manhattan. Paul was living blocks away, and when I met him he made me feel as if the whole neighborhood welcomed me. He was generous, and open and immediately took me into his confidence, conspiratorially. I hadn’t spent much time in literary society — my friends are mostly visual artists — but Paul swept me into it with his animated dinners. There I met the likes […]

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