The first time I “met” Paul Auster was when I read The New York Trilogy. I was intrigued by those ‘noirish’ post-modern games with identity and genres, but I didn’t become an Auster fan yet. It was really Moon Palace that did it. I had finished my dissertation on Dashiell Hammett and was looking for another writer to spend my free time (?) letting my neurones fly high around a guy and his imagination: I ended up reading all his books and started doing research on his work.
The second time I
“met” Paul Auster was in Asturias. I got his contact through the editor of the
only book on the market on Auster at the time, Dennis Barone, and I sent
Auster’s assistant (he never got to use email, as far as I know) a request to
interview him. This was the year that he received the Prince of Asturias award,
and he had an open Q&A session (with Pedro Almodóvar, another recipient of
the award that year) in the Teatro Jovellanos. He was so busy that we couldn’t
have a proper interview, but I got to ask both of them a couple of questions
from the audience, and he did sign a book for me.
The last time I “met”
him was when I interviewed him. We had decided to have a phone interview and we
agreed on a date. It was the Saturday during Thanksgiving weekend in the
States, Auster was in his Brooklyn home, and you could hear the noise of
breakfast in the background. He was extremely nice and helpful. I had faxed him
the questions (as it is well known, he always wrote longhand and then typed the
result in his old typewriter) and we spent almost one hour talking about his
relationship with film. I didn’t know if I would publish the interview yet, but
I asked for Auster’s permission, he said he would like to correct it, we faxed
each other several proofs, and I ended up publishing in the Revista de
Estudios Norteamericanos and in Literature/Film Quarterly.
And, finally, the time
I nearly met him again was a few years ago, before his illness. By then, I had published
several articles on his work and co-edited a book with my friend Stefania
Ciocia (The Invention of Illusions), and the University of Copenhagen
organized two symposia that were the beginning of the Paul Auster Research
Library in that university. I was invited to present a paper in the second
symposium, but not in the first, which Auster attended, so I missed him that
time, but I cherish the fact that, according to legend (and two friends), he
did ask about my whereabouts.
In the last couple of years,
I have been following closely his fight with cancer and the tragic news about
his son and granddaughter. As he wrote in his autobiographical memoirs, tragedy
was hovering around him, like the time when he found out that his grandmother
had killed his own grandfather, or that other time when lightning struck (and
killed) the boy next to him in a summer camp.
He was an excellent
person and a great writer, able to hook the readers and play postmodern games
at the same time; both European and genuinely American, he managed to show the
paradoxes of contemporary life and establish deep connections with millions of
readers all over the world, because, as he said when he received the Prince of
Asturias Award, “a book is the only place in the world where
two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy”.
Farewell,
Paul.
