Paul Auster 1947 – 2024

“Would you like to have lunch with Paul Auster?”

This is over twenty years ago now. I’m working in a bookstore and have a good relationship with Auster’s publisher. Customers would come in looking for recommendations and I’d throw City of Glass at them, offering to pay for it myself if they hated it. No one ever took me up on the offer and I like to think they’d discovered a life long love for the author, just as I had.

I’d completed a Masters Degree in Postmodern Literature that had eventually become overshadowed by Cormac McCarthy, but Auster remained at its core. Back then he was seemingly a key part of everything. I’d been reading him since I was a teenager and his New York Trilogy was one of my most beloved rereads.

So yes. I’d really like to have lunch with Paul Auster.

I can’t remember what we ate that early evening in London, but I do remember how patient he was with me as I talked at breakneck speed about his work and dropped my entire collection of battered paperbacks in front of him.

“I hope we have time to eat,” he said as he kindly signed each one.

Over the years, when meeting people that are renowned for their work I find that they don’t really like talking about themselves or the thing that put them on the map, directors and authors especially. Actors… maybe not so much. Auster was the same, and I quickly understood we needed a new topic of discussion.

At university I’d been asked if I wanted to take part in an extra curricular evening class where we’d read Ulysses for fun. A chapter a week. From there it was a simple step to Beckett, and after university I’d take trips to Paris to walk the same streets they had, and drink in the bars that Hemingway had been thrown out of. Auster, of course, had done better, living in Paris for many years. Brooklyn was home, but he had entered that group of American authors for who France was always at hand.

Chatting with Auster, this was safer ground than bludgeoning him with my theories about The Music of Chance. We spoke Beckett and drank black coffee, and then he left and continued to be one of America’s greatest living authors right up until yesterday.

I’m still processing the passing of Cormac McCarthy and no doubt this will take longer to feel real, but in a way Auster will always be tapping away on his old typewriter in Brooklyn. Haunting, in the very best way, those of us that loved him.

The above started off as a few lines for Instagram written on a train this morning, than a paragraph for Facebook and finally a fuck it I’ve been meaning to start my dumb newsletter again so here we are.

How have you been?

We’ll have a proper catch-up on the next one, but as it’s customary for me to write a little story here’s a short one to ease us back in. Until next time… here you go.

The Strawberry Saga

How long does she have left?

Hard to say. Days. Maybe a week.

That’s not long.

No. It’s not.

How old is she?

We think she was born around 1767.

Fuck. Sorry. It’s just… the things she must have witnessed.

There are no words for it.

But she’s not talking. I thought the machine…

The machine works.

On any animal?

Yes. On any animal.

The dog walked into the lab as if on cue.

Hey, Deefer. How’s it going?

The dog let out a series of small happy barks as its tail wagged. The software in Deefer’s collar caught the noise, neck and mouth movements and ran it through the algorithm that was going to change the world. The feedback into their earpieces was almost immediate.

Pretty good, dad! Did mom tell you about the stick?

The doctor shook his head, smiling.

No she did not. Was it a good one?

Dad, it was the best! She took our photo!

You and the stick?

Yes! Can I go find Clara?

Sure. See you later.

The dog chased its tail happily once and then left the room at a trot.

Clara works in the canteen. She usually has treats for him.

Amazing. I’ve seen the videos, but… its real isn’t it?

Accurate to 97% we believe. Dogs and primates have been the most successful as they seem to want to hold a conversation. They’re easily distracted, but its a little like talking to ten year olds.

Cats? I have two cats.

Bastards. Every one of them. We’ve rotated them out of the pool for now. Once we’ve gone public we’ll have the cash to hire a team with more patience who can deal with all the sarcasm.

She laughed.

But nothing from her.

They turned back to look at the Giant Tortoise. She was grazing and seemed happy enough in the simulated grassland that took up the rear of the laboratory building.

Not a single word.

Does she know she’s dying?, his new assistant had asked.

They had wrestled with that one. The moral questions around their work had been pushed aside as theoretical until the first breakthrough with a Border Collie named Sam just over a year ago. Sam wanted to know what had happened to her puppies. Tough fucking day that one.

The doctor was almost home when his new assistant rang. He pulled over to the side of the road with his house visible in the distance. The lights were on. His wife was home and this was the first time he’d got back at a reasonable hour in months. With a sigh he picked up the call.

I’m sorry to call you out of hours, but…

It’s fine. What is it?

Erm… I had an idea. I know she won’t talk to us, but I was reading The Odyssey on the way home and… well… it sounds a little crazy now.

Tell me.

She told him. She was right. It did sound crazy.

He turned the car around and headed back to the lab asking the vehicle to text his wife an apology and then started making the calls.

How long?

The new assistant looked at her watch.

Three and a half hours now.

To and fro?

Not really. It’s mostly her holding court, but he’s a good listener.

How old is he?

Almost one year.

That’s not long.

It’s not. But it’s all she needed.

He looked at his new assistant with a smile.

Not bad for your first day. The Odyssey, huh?

It was in the introduction actually. I haven’t started it properly yet.

Do we know their names?

Emma. It was the first thing she told him.

It’s a good name. Strong. And the little one?

His assistant looked a little embarrassed.

He asked me what his name should be.

And?

It’s Homer. His name is Homer.

Just then Deefer walked in.

Dad, did Mom tell you about the stick?

The Giant Tortoise named Emma looked at the dog in the lab and slowly directed her new young friend’s attention to it.

That is a dog. A Beagle in fact.

The tiny Giant Tortoise, only as big as her toe, blinked twice.

Funnily enough the ship that brought me here was called The Beagle. Let me tell you about a great man called Charles Darwin. I’m named after his wife you know. He was a funny, funny man. One time we were in the garden and…

Homer took it all in. He was hardwired to remember it all. He chewed slowly on a strawberry almost as big as he was and took it all in.

The assistant’s headset was relaying it all into the system. Her book sat open and unread on her lap as she listened to history brought back to life. One line in the book was underlined hard enough to rip the paper:

ORAL TRADITION.

It took more than days. It took more than a week.

It took… well it took as long as it needed to take.

And then when it was done… Emma slept.

END