In memoriam: Paul Auster
Paul Auster. Photo credit: Jerry Bauer. Image source: L'actualité.
Paul Auster, The Locked Room (1986), Book Three of The New York Trilogy, Chapter 4:
I spent that night in Sophie's bed, and from then on it became impossible to leave it. . .I had been born to be with Sophie, and little by little I could feel myself becoming stronger, could feel her making me better than I had been. It was strange how Fanshawe had brought us together. If not for his disappearance, none of this would have happened.
. . .In some sense this is where the story should end. The young genius is dead, but his work will live on, his name will be remembered for years to come. His childhood friend has rescued the beautiful young widow, and the two of them will live happily ever after. That would seem to wrap it up, with nothing left but a final curtain call. But it turns out that this is only the beginning.
. . .Only darkness has the power to make a man open his heart to the world. And darkness is what surrounds me whenever I think of what happened. If courage is needed to write about it, I also know that writing about it is the one chance I have to escape. But I doubt this will happen, not even if I manage to tell the truth.
. . .11:30 rolled around, the hour of the mail, and I made my ritual excursion down the elevator to see if there was anything in my box. . .This was my hiding place, the one spot in the world that was purely my own. And yet it linked me to the rest of the world. And in its magic darkness there was the power to make things happen. There was only one letter for me that day. It came in a plain white envelope with a New York postmark, and had no return address. . .I opened the envelope in the elevator. And it was then, standing there on my way to the ninth floor, that the world fell on top of me.
'Don't be angry with me for writing to you,' the letter began. 'At the risk of causing you heart failure, I wanted to send you one last word, to thank you for what you have done. . .I'm not going to explain myself here. In spite of this letter I want you to go on thinking of me as dead. . .Above all, say nothing to Sophie. . .Seven years from the day of my disappearance will be the day of my death. I have passed judgment on myself, and no appeals will be heard. . .Writing was an illness that plagued me for a long time. But now I have recovered from it. Rest assured that I won't be in touch again. You are free of me now. . .Wish me luck.'
Mekons, "Only Darkness Has The Power," from Rock N' Roll (1989):
I should have known when I started this piece that a Mekons reference was coming .... It has been quite a while since the last one!
ReplyDeleteYes, I try never to pass up an opportunity to bring in a Mekons reference. For those unaware of this band, you can find out more about them in the post A byproduct of confusion: The Revenge of the Mekons.
DeleteI've always preferred the verve and raw energy of the Mekons to Auster's cerebral musings. Thanks for posting both. I appreciate the UK cover to "Rock ’n Roll," too.
ReplyDeleteM. Lapin, many thanks for your thoughts on the Mekons and their source text. For many years I thought this song was autobiographical, and I was stunned when I discovered that it was an appropriation. As you note, Auster's novels tend to be cool, clever, cerebral, and controlled; by yoking his (cut-up, slightly modified) words to their raw country-punk, the Mekons create a delicious tension. By the way, the cover art for this album is credited as "'Portraits of Elvis Presley in the style of Jackson Pollock' Nos. 7 & 12 by Mekons." Collective creativity set against individual "genius"; the sweaty community of a great live rock band set against the insular, exclusive hierarchy of the New York literary scene; skepticism, irony and opposition versus following the rules that powerful others have set. The Mekons have succeeded in never being "successful"; long may they play.
Delete