“In general, lives seem to veer abruptly from one thing to another, to jostle and bump, to squirm. A person heads in one direction, turns sharply in mid-course, stalls, drifts, starts up again. Nothing is ever known, and inevitably we come to a place quite different from the one we set out for.” (Paul Auster, The New York Trilogy) 

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By Prof. Elisa Puvia | Edited by Victoria Vega

This was my first encounter with Paul Auster. And it was a revelation. At that time, I was writing my master’s thesis in Political Science, a field that was a stranger to my Cognitive Sciences Ph.D. and my expertise as socio-cognitive psychologist. Yet, that passage gave me a sense of validation, and a belief that a new chapter of my life was about to start.  

A bright, successful one.  

To be honest, I am not sure what the purpose of this piece is. It is not a critical revision of Auster’s work, nor is it an academic review. I don’t want to write an obituary, nor one of those celebratory articles that typically appear when a famous person passes away. The purpose, I think, is deeply personal: to share what my experience with Paul Auster has been, to recount some facts and impressions I’ve gathered from reading (part of) his works and public talks, and perhaps to spark some curiosity in readers.  

But I’m not certain I’ll stay true to these intentions.  

Paul Auster was born in Newark, New Jersey, from a family of Jewish Polish immigrants. He grew up in South Orange and later lived near Maplewood. For four decades, he called Brooklyn home. Auster was deeply intertwined with New York City: “New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked, no matter how well he came to know its neighborhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost (New York Trilogy).” And again, in the novel “4 3 2 1”, he described the city in a more condensed yet sparkling way: density, immensity, complexity. 

He was described as “one of America’s most spectacularly inventive writers.” Auster embodied the American spirit and values; he loved baseball, as both an avid player and supporter, just like many of the characters in his novels. According to Auster, his writing life began at the age of eight when he missed out on getting an autograph from his baseball hero, Willie Mays, because neither he nor his parents had carried a pencil to the game. From then on, he took a pencil everywhere. “If there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using it,” he wrote in a 1995 essay. 

However, Auster was anything but local. He graduated in comparative literature from Columbia University in New York, where he was arrested, along with hundreds of other students, for participating in the anti-Vietnam war protests in 1968. He then moved to Paris, France where he spent several years translating French literature and poetry into English, while also beginning to publish his own work in literary journals. 

Auster was the author of over 30 books, translated into more than 40 languages. His death has been felt as a significant loss by his many readers in Europe, and especially in France, where, as the Intelligencer reported in 2007, he was regarded as “a rockstar”. In Denmark, the University of Copenhagen hosts a special Paul Auster Research Library, and there is a Paul Auster Society, in which Auster was an active member and collaborator (https://austerlibrary.ku.dk/). 

Auster was more than just a novelist; he was considered a deep thinker who addressed the many problems of the modern world. He was a member of PEN America, a non-profit organization that raises awareness for the protection of free expression in the United States and worldwide through the advancement of literature and human rights. He was also among the founders of “Writers for Democratic Action,” an organization of writers, editors, journalists, readers, and booksellers united to defend democracy and civil liberties (ttps://www.writersfordemocraticaction.org/). Last year, Auster published “Bloodbath Nation” in collaboration with his photographer son-in-law, Spencer Ostrander, focusing on gun violence in America.  

When asked about the political role of literature, Auster emphasized the immense influence books can have on young people. He believed books have the power to change how we view the world. For him, the novel itself is a democratic act, as it is often centered around ordinary individuals. To fully immerse oneself in a novel, the reader must step into the consciousness of another individual, an act that broadens our sense of community. Ultimately, Auster believed books can help us feel connected to others and, at their most powerful, foster compassion. 

Auster remained a curious and prolific thinker throughout his career. In 2021, he published an anthology on Stephen Crane’s work, “Burning Boy: The Life and Work of Stephen Crane.” He also wrote screenplays for arthouse films (Smoke, about a Brooklyn tobacco shop and its follow-up, Blue in the Face, both 1995) and even directed The Inner Life of Martin Frost (2007). 

Despite his extensive and diverse body of work, much of his literary legacy has been linked to The New York Trilogy, his breakout success. At times, Auster expressed frustration over the fact, saying: “Journalists tend to regard the work that first brings you into the public eye as your best.” He compared his situation to that of Lou Reed, who grew tired of his hit song Walk on the Wild Side, saying it followed him throughout his life. “Even so,” Auster added, “I don’t think in terms of ‘best’ or ‘worst.’ Making art isn’t like competing in the Olympics.”  

Auster’s writing style was mesmerizing in its truth-telling, often revealing the strange, unknowable forces at play in everyday life. As he put it, “The unexpected is rushing in on us all the time. The unexpected is part of the fabric of reality, what I call the mechanics of reality.” Auster suggests that both writers and readers have normalized existence, putting life into boxes of what is possible and probable. In his view, we tend to confine human existence into a narrow framework of what is likely or expected, forgetting that the improbable and even the impossible occur with surprising frequency. We often try to rationalize these events by attributing them to clear causality, but life doesn’t always work that way—one thing does not necessarily lead to another. Auster’s strength as a writer lies in engaging readers while disrupting these assumptions about how the world operates. Isn’t that the goal—to unsettle, to provoke? To be genuinely revolutionary or subversive, though, he believed that a writer must be clear, so their work can be understood. 

Auster once said that reading Dostoyevsky at 15 had a profound impact on him and led him to become a writer. He wanted to touch people the way Dostoyevsky had touched him. And so, he did. One reason his books and films were so beloved was that Auster connected with readers from all walks of life—across age, gender, ethnicity, class, and religion. He cared deeply about his characters, once describing the novel as  “the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy.” 

It was in that space of intimacy that I met Mr. Auster many times.