Paul Auster's Postmodernity (Studies in Major Literary Authors)

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Studies in Major Literary Authors

Edited by

William E. Cain Professor of English Wellesley College

A Routledge Series

Studies in Major Literary Authors William E. Cain, General Editor Queer Times Christopher Isherwood’s Modernity Jamie M. Carr

Sports, Narrative, and Nation in the Fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald Jarom Lyle McDonald

Edith Wharton’s “Evolutionary Conception” Darwinian Allegory in Her Major Novels Paul J. Ohler

Shelley’s Intellectual System and its Epicurean Background Michael A. Vicario

The End of Learning Milton and Education Thomas Festa Reading and Mapping Hardy’s Roads Scott Rode Creating Yoknapatawpha Readers and Writers in Faulkner’s Fiction Owen Robinson No Place for Home Spatial Constraint and Character Flight in the Novels of Cormac McCarthy Jay Ellis The Machine that Sings Modernism, Hart Crane, and the Culture of the Body Gordon A. Tapper Influential Ghosts A Study of Auden’s Sources Rachel Wetzsteon D.H. Lawrence’s Border Crossing Colonialism in His Travel Writings and “Leadership” Novels Eunyoung Oh Dorothy Wordsworth’s Ecology Kenneth R. Cervelli

Modernist Aesthetics and Consumer Culture in the Writings of Oscar Wilde Paul L. Fortunato Milton’s Uncertain Eden Understanding Place in Paradise Lost Andrew Mattison Henry Miller and Religion Thomas Nesbit The Magic Lantern Representation of the Double in Dickens Maria Cristina Paganoni The Environmental Unconscious in the Fiction of Don DeLillo Elise A. Martucci James Merrill Knowing Innocence Reena Sastri Yeats and Theosophy Ken Monteith Pynchon and the Political Samuel Thomas Paul Auster’s Postmodernity Brendan Martin

Paul Auster’s Postmodernity

Brendan Martin

Routledge New York & London

First published 2008 by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Simultaneously published in the UK by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2008 Taylor & Francis All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Martin, Brendan. Paul Auster’s postmodernity / by Brendan Martin. p. cm.—(Studies in major literary authors) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-96203-X 1. Auster, Paul, 1947---Criticism and interpretation. 2. Postmodernism (Literature)—United States. I. Title. PS3551.U77Z695 2007 813’.54--dc22 2007022519 ISBN 0-203-93751-1 Master e-book ISBN ISBN10: 0-415-96203-X (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-93751-1 (ebk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-96203-2 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-93751-8 (ebk)

For my mother and in memory of my father

Contents

Preface

ix

Chapter One Writing, Self-Invention, Memory: The Residual Modernism of Paul Auster’s Postmodernity

1

Chapter Two “Our Lives Are No More Than the Sum of Manifold Contingencies”: Paul Auster’s Ambiguous Postmodern Philosophy

35

Chapter Three “Every Man is the Author of his Own Life”: Postmodern Life-Writing and the Duplicity of Self-Invention

67

Chapter Four Dislocation, Ambiguity, Indeterminacy: The Postmodernity of The New York Trilogy

103

Chapter Five Postmodern Modes of Social Identity: Paul Auster’s Evocation of Urban Dislocation, Estranged Solitude, Collective Diversity 145 Chapter Six The Authority of Authorship: The Ambiguities of Life-Writing in Leviathan

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Notes

213

Bibliography

231

Index

235 vii

Preface

In this book I will investigate Auster’s literary postmodernity in relation to a full range of his factual and fictional writings. Auster invariably blurs elements of fact and fiction within his narratives, and the majority of his fictional protagonists appear to be versions of Auster. In this respect, Auster constructs postmodern autobiographies, and his characters share Auster’s experiences. I will explore Auster’s evocation of a postmodern autobiography, and suggest that this blurring of fact and fiction contributes towards thorough skepticism and the lack of any definitive sense of coherent certainty. Auster resorts to self-invention in the course of his fictional narratives, and composes ‘autobiographical’ fictions based upon his own experiences. The predominance of narrative perspectives evident within Auster’s writings, ensure that Auster distances himself from authorial authenticity and accountability. Auster’s literary universe is one in which the contingent event is considered to be of monumental significance, and in his writings, Auster highlights the continual presence of random and arbitrary happenings. Auster’s conception of chance, moreover, confirms his status as a self-consciously postmodern author. New York City serves as a backdrop to many of Auster’s writings, and Auster evokes the postmodern notion of urban dislocation in order to compliment his fictional narratives. The role of the author is another topic that Auster scrutinizes, and he promotes the viewpoint that the author must critique his surroundings, and the policies enforced by the controlling elite. As such, there is a political dimension to many of Auster’s writings. Auster’s attitude towards the status of the author is also reflected in his analysis of the process of composition, with the author viewed as a solitary individual without a life of his or her own. Auster’s postmodern investigation of authorship ensures that the author is removed from the compositional process, with the reader held responsible for the fate of Auster’s various, and somewhat interchangeable protagonists. ix

x

Preface

Auster’s best known and most popular work is The New York Trilogy, which comprises three short novels, City of Glass, Ghosts, and The Locked Room, and much critical scrutiny has been devoted to each component part of the triptych, as well as to the work as a whole. City of Glass was first published in 1985, and in the intervening years, Auster has produced a variety of novels and autobiographical pieces. I will read The New York Trilogy in conjunction with Auster’s later writings, and suggest that the obvious postmodern literary devices employed by Auster in his first major work remain significant to his ongoing literary project. My analysis of Auster’s main body of writing, therefore, will examine the ways in which the subject matter of The New York Trilogy has influenced and determined all of Auster’s subsequent writings. While Auster continues to utilize obvious postmodern literary devices within his writings, I will suggest that Auster cannot be categorized as simply as a definitive postmodernist. Indeed, Auster’s later writings, most notably Moon Palace and Leviathan, demonstrate Auster’s social and political critique of the policies enforced by successive American administrations. Oracle Nights, written in the wake of the September 11, 2001 destruction of New York City’s World Trade Center, is a marked contrast to some of Auster’s early writings. As opposed to an obvious self-deprecating postmodernist, Auster writes from a perspective that appears attentive to the transient nature of human existence.

Chapter One

Writing, Self-Invention, Memory: The Residual Modernism of Paul Auster’s Postmodernity

With the publication of his first novel City of Glass, Paul Auster was hailed as the latest in a series of American authors who could be labeled ‘postmodernist.’ City of Glass is a pastiche of the detective genre and exhibits many of the classic traits of postmodern fiction. These include an indeterminate and ironic relationship between character and author; an ambiguous narrative voice; the blurring of fact and fiction; and döppelgangers as a central theme. As the novel’s protagonist Daniel Quinn is a writer with the literary pseudonym William Wilson, Auster alludes to Edgar Allan Poe’s eponymous story that deals with duality. As City of Glass opens, Quinn receives a telephone call intended for a detective named Paul Auster. Quinn has been a virtual recluse since the death of his wife and child, and informs the caller that he is Auster. Quinn has already compromised his sense of identity, and immerses himself in the role of Auster to the extent that he begins to lose his grip on reality. Quinn is hired to locate the recently paroled Peter Stillman, and becomes obsessed with his surveillance of Stillman. Quinn’s task helps to overcome the emptiness associated with his previous existence. Quinn develops characteristics pertinent to Stillman, but inadvertently enables him to escape. He subsequently discovers that Stillman committed suicide at the exact moment Quinn experienced a total breakdown. Quinn emerges from his self-enforced exile, and telephones Paul Auster. However, this proves to be another case of mistaken identity. The Auster Quinn meets is a writer rather than the detective. Quinn leaves Auster and believes that the author cannot comprehend his plight. At the close of the novel, the unnamed narrator notes that Quinn has vanished without trace. The narrator is unsure of Quinn’s present whereabouts. He can however categorically state that Paul Auster, the writer, has acted in bad faith.

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City of Glass and the subsequent installments of The New York Trilogy can be classified ‘postmodernist’ texts, and publication of the novels would place Auster firmly on the literary map. Although the label ‘postmodernist’ has remained with Auster, critics are divided as to whether this is an apt classification. Auster has been described by William McPheron, Bruce Bawer, and Gary Indiana, among others, as alternatively the epitome of the postmodern, a premodern, or, an author who concentrates on themes as opposed to fully developed characterization. While the term ‘postmodernist’ has been applied to Auster’s writings, Auster himself veers away from labels and states that, as he is primarily interested in storytelling, his writing style cannot be as easily pigeonholed. Within this opening chapter I will investigate Auster’s postmodernity in relation to theories of Anglo-American literary postmodernism as espoused by theorists such as Ihab Hassan, Andreas Huyssen and Matei Calinescu. Although there is much disagreement with regard to the tenets of postmodern fiction, I will examine how facets of each of these theories can be applied to Auster’s writings, and how, finally, each fails to categorize Auster’s literary project. This being the case, I will locate ways in which Auster can be read, and address the question: what actually constitutes the postmodernity of Paul Auster? I In the 1960s postmodernism came to prominence as a critical and theoretical concept. Since then numerous philosophers and theorists have formulated their critiques of the evident defining characteristics. While these interpretations are in stark contrast to each other, the majority of critics share the belief that postmodernism is synonymous with a form of radical skepticism or antifoundationalism. Literary postmodernism is an offshoot of postmodernism in general, and has resulted in as much diversity. Critics are divided as to the defining tenets, as well as those authors whose writings merit inclusion within this corpus. As the debate with regard to the definition of literary postmodernism has raged, Andreas Huyssen asserts that the subject has become: “ . . . one of the most contested terrains in the intellectual life of Western societies”1. Historian Arnold Toynbee first coined the term ‘postmodern’ in the early 1950s. In volume VIII of his Study of History, Toynbee argues that postmodernism originated in the late nineteenth-century. For Toynbee, this period in history is “ . . . marked by the rise of an industrial working class,” a phenomenon which Toynbee equates with the advent of “mass society . . . mass education . . . mass culture”2. In Toynbee’s opinion,

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postmodernism is synonymous with advances in technology, and symbolizes the end of the ‘Modern Age’ of Western society. Toynbee suggests that the bourgeoisie and previous modes of existence have been surpassed by the ‘postmodern’ age, with established protocols abandoned in favor of social unrest, anarchy and revolution. In Five Faces of Modernity, Matei Calinescu defines Toynbee’s conception of postmodernism: As it stands, “post-Modern” is a hazy, quasi-apocalyptic notion referring to obscure demonic forces, which, if completely unleashed, could overthrow the very structures of Modern Western civilisation. “Post-Modern” in Toynbee’s prophetic language suggests irrationality, anarchy, and threatening indeterminacy, and from the various contexts in which the term is used, one thing becomes clear beyond doubt, namely, that “post-Modern” has overwhelmingly negative—although not necessarily derogatory—connotations3.

In “Postmodernism, Modernity, and the Tradition of Dissent,” Lloyd Spencer highlights the negative attributes associated with postmodernism, which Spencer believes is: . . . an extension of the critical, sceptical, dissenting—even nihilistic— impulse of modernity . . . Under the ‘postmodern condition’ dissent becomes generalized: it can seem to involve ‘dissent in principle’ or even ‘dissent from everything possible’4.

In “Postmodernism and Philosophy,” Stuart Sim refers to the level of uncertainty associated with postmodern philosophy. Sim states: “Antifoundationalists dispute the validity of the foundations of discourse, asking such questions as, ‘What guarantees the truth of your foundation (that is, starting point) in its turn’”5. Postmodern philosophers encourage diversity and ambiguity. As they question their own seeming omnipotence, their doctrine focuses upon: . . . a rejection of the idea that there are foundations to our system of thought or belief, that lie beyond question, and that are necessary to the business of making value judgements. Postmodernist philosophy has proved to be resolutely antifoundational in outlook, and unwilling to accept that this renders it dysfunctional in any way as philosophy6.

In The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, Jean-Francois Lyotard, a former Marxist, asserts that postmodernism symbolizes a challenge

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to the authority of the established ‘grand narratives.’ Lyotard’s concept of postmodernism will be discussed at length in the following chapter. As knowledge remains a privilege of a unified hierarchy, Lyotard criticizes classical knowledge systems. Lyotard insists that developments in technology have rendered these knowledge systems fabular. Thus, as the unpredictable and inexplicable impact upon human consciousness, postmodern knowledge is based upon skepticism: Postmodern knowledge is not simply a tool of the authorities; it refines our sensitivity to differences and reinforces our ability to tolerate the incommensurable. Its principle is not the expert’s homology, but the inventor’s paralogy7.

In contrast to Lyotard, Fredric Jameson, in “Postmodernism and Consumer Society,” argues that postmodernism is symptomatic of the particular cultural and socio-economic period. Jameson asserts that postmodernism is a diluted version of modernism. He identifies the postmodern with the advent of the televisual age, and corresponding growth of the media. Jameson suggests that postmodernism is: . . . a periodizing concept whose function is to correlate the emergence of new formal features in culture with the emergence of a new type of social life and a new economic order—what is often euphemistically called modernization, postindustrial or consumer society, the society of the media or the spectacle, or multinational capitalism8.

Thus, postmodernism can be considered an extreme version of skepticism, a continuation of the modernist tradition, or, a concept pertinent to the ethos of contemporary society. It is the ambiguous and all-encompassing nature of the concept that contributes to this overwhelming degree of contention. Ihab Hassan details the ambiguous nature of the concept in The Postmodern Turn. Hassan highlights the problems encountered by those who define the ‘postmodern’: The word postmodernism sounds not only awkward, uncouth; it evokes what it wishes to surpass or suppress, modernism itself. The term thus contains its enemy within . . . Moreover, it denotes temporal linearity and connotes belatedness, even decadence, to which no postmodernist would admit. But what better name have we to give to this curious age . . . shall we call it the Age of Indetermanence (indeterminacy +

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immanence) . . . Or better still, shall we simply live and let others live to call us what they may?9

Hassan constructs a concept of American literary postmodernism, and explores the various techniques employed within post-war fiction. In Hassan’s opinion, American postmodernism symbolizes a radical alternative to that which had existed previously. As all universal certainties are replaced by perpetual doubt and anxiety, these reflect the collective mindset. Hassan states that postmodernism represents a rupture from the modernist project, and lists a series of Modernist rubrics: Urbanism; Technologism; “Dehumanization”; Primitivism; Eroticism; Antinomianism; Experimentalism. Hassan investigates the ways in which these established cornerstones have been reinterpreted. Hassan argues that, while Modernism “ . . . created its own forms of artistic Authority precisely because the center no longer held, Postmodernism has tended toward artistic Anarchy in deeper complicity with things falling apart”10. As such postmodernism opts for chaos and a sense of dislocation. Authority is rejected in favor of the intrusion of the unpredictable: “Antielitism, antiauthoritarianism. Diffusion of the ego . . . Irony becomes radical, self-consuming play, entropy of meaning”11. Postmodernism paves the way for the inclusion of discerning and multiple voices, and is opposed to the structures imposed by the controlling elite. Thus the established conservative ethos is rejected in favor of diversity and radicalism: “The Counter Cultures, political and otherwise . . . Rebellion and Reaction!”12 Similarly, the modernist metropolis has been distorted into an impersonal, post-apocalyptic environment, which is exemplified by lack of connection, brutal violence and collective annihilation. Irrationalism is employed as a means of communal expression and suppression: “Meanwhile, Dionysus has entered the City: prison riots, urban crime, pornography, etc. Worse, the City as holocaust or death camp: Hiroshima, Dresden, Auschwitz”13. In “Postmodernism: What Are They Talking About?” Todd Gitlin maintains that postmodernism is a peculiarly American concept. Gitlin’s conception of postmodernism constitutes “ . . . a reaction to the 1960s. It is post-Vietnam, post-New left, post-hippie, post-Watergate. History was ruptured, passions have been expanded, belief has become difficult”14. Disciples of this type of postmodernism are those who experienced the abject futility and staged ‘phoniness’ of the Vietnam War, hypocritical corruption at the highest level of government, and lack of significant institutional change. The radicals of the 1960s proved to be only a partially effective opposition. The works of these postmodernists are representative of a lack of certainty and represent an end product of the collective crisis of belief. One member of

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this post-war generation is Paul Auster. His brilliant narratives Moon Palace and Leviathan detail the repercussions of the 1960s and 1970s period at first hand. Rather than a philosophy of ‘anything goes,’ Gitlin asserts that American postmodernism is characterized by a number of definitive features: “Postmodernism” usually refers to a certain constellation of styles and tones in cultural works: pastiche, blankness; a sense of exhaustion; a mixture of levels, forms, styles; a relish for copies and repetition; a knowingness that dissolves commitment into irony; acute self-consciousness about the formal, constructed nature of the work; pleasure in the play of surfaces; a rejection of history15.

Gitlin argues that postmodern fiction, “ . . . self-consciously splices genres, attitudes, styles. It relishes the blurring or juxtaposition of forms (fiction-non-fiction), stances (straight-ironic), moods (violent-comic), cultural levels (high-low)”16. Gitlin considers Auster’s autonomous stance, adopted in “The Book of Memory,” the second book of The Invention of Solitude, to be another version of literary postmodernism. Gitlin cites the sense of dislocation evident within postmodern literature, and asserts that the concept of definitive time has been rendered obsolete. As realistic conventions have been superseded by an emphasis on undecidability, all ontological certainties are eroded. As a consequence: “Everything takes place in the present, ‘here,’ that is, nowhere in particular”17. Although Gitlin’s concept of literary postmodernism can be applied to some of Auster’s writings, this clear-cut definition is problematical. It may be the case that Auster’s reputation as the ‘definitive’ postmodernist, influences Gitlin’s notion of American postmodernism. Auster achieved acclaim with The New York Trilogy. Thus his writings are representative of this mode of literature. Several of Auster’s novels—The New York Trilogy, In the Country of Last Things and The Music of Chance—adhere to Gitlin’s definition of literary postmodernism. These contemporary parables signify Auster’s critique of modern life. As Auster’s America is impersonal and claustrophobic, tangible connections are established, yet often unsustained. As the installments of The New York Trilogy merge, the enduring themes are disappearance and escape. The three protagonists exile themselves from all remnants of their previous existences. Ghosts, the second installment of The New York Trilogy begins on February 3, 1947, the date of Paul Auster’s birth. City of Glass and The Locked Room, however, exist within an indeterminate time frame. Although these novels mirror contemporary New York City, as Auster employs elements of both the standard detective genre, and Hollywood film noir, the

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trilogy itself could be set during any time period since the 1940s. Similarly, the city in In the Country of Last Things, is reminiscent of New York City, but may also be any number of industrialized post-war European capitals. While Anna Blume and Jim Nashe form intense relationships, both become isolated. The confines of their respective environments result in an overwhelming sentiment of restriction. The Music of Chance is the most conventional of the three novels mentioned, and is set in contemporary America. However, the backdrop to the novel is rural. As Nashe moves from the open road to the rural setting of the Pennsylvania woods, his life and associations become restricted in the extreme. Gitlin’s is a peculiarly American version of postmodernism, but his sentiment echoes the concerns of Huyssen and Calinescu, both of whom are advocates of the European school of postmodernism. Auster’s writing style and the concerns expressed in “The Book of Memory” equally adhere to Huyssen’s conception of European postmodernism. Huyssen states that postmodern literature stems from a culture of eclecticism, which merges modernist and contemporary concerns, and the end product of which is labeled ‘postmodernist’: . . . an ever wider dispersal and dissemination of artistic practices all working out of the ruins of the modernist edifice, raiding it for ideas, plundering its vocabulary and supplementing it with randomly chosen images and motifs from pre-modern and non-modern cultures as well as from contemporary mass culture18.

Huyssen and his son visit a contemporary art gallery in Germany. Huyssen comments on the exhibition entitled Seventh Documenta, a collection of current trends in art. Huyssen observes Joseph Beuys’s 7000 ‘planting stones,’ Kounellis’ golden wall, and Mario Merz’s glass, steel, wood and sandstone spiral table. Huyssen’s son is unsure why these artworks are on display, and asks: “Is this art?”19 For Huyssen, this artwork is representative of postmodernism, its anti-modernist qualities evident in “ . . . its loss of irony, reflexiveness and self-doubt”20. The absence of these modernist qualities symbolizes Huyssen’s postmodernity. Therefore this theory also fails to accurately categorize Auster’s writings. Indeed, all three of these concepts—irony, reflexiveness, self-doubt—are relevant to the author’s continual concerns. European theorists consider postmodernism a chronological development. Opposed to an inextricable rupture, postmodernism for them represents the latest phase in the modernist project. In Five Faces of Modernity, Calinescu asserts that postmodernism represents a continuation of the

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established modernist ethos, and is merely one face of a “larger modernity.” Calinescu explores the ways in which postmodernism is influenced and determined by the remit of the Modernist tradition, and is a successor to other artistic movements that have gone before, namely kitsch and the avantgarde. In his conclusion to Five Faces of Modernity, Calinescu states: We perceive these varied faces as related because of their common association with a larger modernity and with its spirit. Were it not for this larger modernity, the partial similarities and the expressive differences among these faces would melt away and become meaningless. We would no longer be attracted to compare and contrast them. We may then assume that as long as we compare and contrast them, modernity survives, at least as the name of a cultural family resemblance in which, for better or for worse, we continue to recognize ourselves21.

Calinescu refers to the “postmodern” age of Modern Society as defined by Toynbee, and illustrates that postmodernism is a chronological development. Indeed, Toynbee’s conception of the label “postmodernist” stems from Toynbee’s pessimism in relation to technological advancements associated with the Industrial Revolution. Thus, Calinescu’s critique of postmodernism is a direct contrast to the viewpoint expressed by his American counterparts. Indeed, American postmodernism can be viewed as symptomatic of the crisis of belief that occurred in the United States in the wake of the repercussions of the Second World War. Calinescu’s analysis, moreover, can be compared to Jameson’s assertion that postmodernism is related to global capitalism, and is symptomatic of the ethos of contemporary society and its interdependent relationship with mass media. Although there is much disagreement with regard to an accurate definition of literary postmodernism, Calinescu stresses that the concept is characterized by an overwhelming sense of diversity: Over the years a corpus of postmodern writing (or, more accurately, writing that is often referred to as postmodern) has thus emerged. I should add, however, that there is nothing rigid or fixed about this corpus, and that in fact it is wide open to revisions, exclusions, inclusions, and even fundamental challenges . . . I see it simply as the product of a historicalhypothetical perspective from which certain questions about the nature of contemporary writing can be asked22.

As the term postmodernism has come into general usage, Calinescu argues that this broad label is often employed haphazardly, with the ‘postmodern’

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viewed as reflective of contemporary concerns. As such, Calinescu maintains that critics who “ . . . want to be able to deal with questions about the status of ‘reality’ versus ‘fiction’ in today’s literary discourses”23, have incorrectly utilized the term. In his exploration of the postmodern novel, Calinescu examines the writings of Samuel Beckett, Jorge Luis Borges and Vladimir Nabokov, three international authors, whose mindsets differ from those of early American postmodernists. Beckett’s writings are characterized by a movement towards a vanishing point, and constitute a “poetics of impossibility”24. Calinescu states that this form of poetics is concerned with, “ . . . the impotence of the word, and with failure, a poetics that states one must write because it is impossible to write”25. Although the works of Borges and Nabokov differ radically, each is unified in its investigation of the postmodern concept of representation: . . . the proliferation of images and actions directly or indirectly linked to the idea of representation: mirrors and copies, reflections and duplications, the unexpected and intricate paradoxes of resemblance, pretending, acting, impersonating, or mimicking, and the various mental predicaments they bring about, in the shape of vicious circles, beggings of the question, and infinite regresses26.

Christopher Butler maintains that Borges “ . . . was the first to adopt certain types of narrative handling which are now all too familiar”27. Borges’s “The Garden of Forking Paths” adheres to the tenets of postmodern narrative experimentalism. This short story illustrates Borges’s “ . . . view of the world as a labyrinth of possibilities, of parallel times, of alternative pasts and futures, all of which have equal claims to fictional presentation”28. Calinescu considers Borges a prime exponent of literary postmodernism. While American postmodernists deny this claim, Borges himself rejects his inclusion within the corpus of postmodern writers. Calinescu asserts that defining traits associated with literary postmodernism include: “ . . . references to epistemological problems and concepts, such as the crisis of determinism, the place of chance and disorder in natural processes”29. Calinescu believes that prose works, which distort the notion of conventional truth, adhere to the tenets of literary postmodernism. As such, these novels address the recurring postmodern questions: Can literature be other than self-referential, given the present-day radical epistemological doubt and the ways in which this doubt affects the

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity status of representation? Can literature be said to be a “representation of reality” when reality itself turns out to be shot with fiction through and through? In what sense does the construction of reality differ from the construction of mere possibility?30

Calinescu suggests that literary postmodernism is primarily associated with epistemological problems and concepts. He provides several examples of these concerns, which include, “ . . . the question of time and particularly irreversible time (whose recognition has displaced the powerful classical clockwork model of the universe)”31. The three Auster novels mentioned above adhere to the tenets of American postmodernism, but can be viewed equally in relation to the requirements of Calinescu’s definition. Blume journeys to a postapocalyptic, yet ostensibly, primitive country, with no concept of conventional time. Is there a discernible time period in The New York Trilogy, and is there a sense of chronological development between one book and the next? As The Locked Room draws to a close, there is very little distinction drawn between the unnamed narrator, and his counterparts, Quinn and Blue. The narrator exiles himself from New York City, and meets Peter Stillman. Is this the same individual that Quinn has become obsessed with? Or, as his pursuit of Fanshawe contributes toward an irreversible breakdown, is the narrator delusional? Alternatively, it may be the case that the narrator is continually involved in the process of ‘storification.’ The narrator encounters the ‘factual’ Peter Stillman, and constructs a narrative based upon this individual. Quinn’s quest therefore, mirrors the narrator’s attempts to locate the enigmatic Fanshawe. The merging of beginning and ending, coupled with the reflective motif in The Music of Chance, with the card game played during the central fifth chapter, also calls into doubt any certainties associated with a definitive period of time. Nashe abandons the trappings of his previous existence, and removes himself from society. As such, his concept of definable time is irrecoverably altered. The concept of literary postmodernism has resulted in much debate. There is however a general consensus of opinion with regard to its broadest and most evident defining characteristics. Postmodern literary devices include ontological skepticism, foundational indeterminacy, and an overwhelming lack of cognitive certainty. Despite Auster’s reputation as author of The New York Trilogy, I will argue that the postmodern literary devices investigated above are evident within the majority of Auster’s writings. The subsequent sections of this chapter will focus on the recurring postmodern question of definitive truth, as investigated in Auster’s autobiographical writings Hand to Mouth and The Invention of Solitude. I will also examine the fictional “autobiography,” Mr. Vertigo, an accurate account of the halcyon days

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of Walter Rawley’s youth, and the loosely “autobiographical” “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story,” its author, Brooklyn-based, Schimmelpenninck smoking, Paul, more than vaguely reminiscent of Paul Auster himself. II Auster’s autobiographical writings appear to constitute straightforward and authentic retellings of events from his life. Auster highlights the differences between factual and fictional texts: In a work of fiction, one assumes there is a conscious mind behind the words on the page. In the presence of happenings in the so-called real world, one assumes nothing. The made-up story consists entirely of meanings, whereas the story of fact is devoid of any significance beyond itself32.

Auster’s autobiographical writings are comparable to other recent examples of the genre. Standard first person narrative and authenticity as a corner-stone, gives way to, “ . . . the treatment on an equal footing of fact and fiction, truth and lying, original and imitation, as a means to emphasize undecidability”33. As this postmodern interpretation of autobiography splices factual events and fictional anecdotes together, the autobiographical ‘Auster’ becomes another literary character. Thus Auster inhabits both the factual and fictional universes. Auster removes the mantle of authorial control and encourage his readership to question the concept of conventional truth. As these “factual” writings are penned by the same individual whose task it is to create fictions on a daily basis, does truth in the conventional sense have a place within autobiography? Should autobiography constitute the stale minutiae of the author’s existence? Or, is it more important to provide one’s readership with an entertaining account of one’s life? Although this degree of ambiguity will inevitably encourage skepticism, there remain some readers who will accept the ‘facts’ at face value. In contrast to his other “autobiographical” writings, Hand to Mouth is presented as a chronicle of Auster’s life from his late teens until the publication of his first novel. During this period Auster enters University College, gains employment on an oil tanker, moves to France and subsequently returns to America. Unlike the anecdotal tales in The Red Notebook, the purpose of which is to reinforce Auster’s hypothesis on contingency, Hand to Mouth adheres to the standard conventions of autobiography: first person narrative and incidents from the past that have impacted upon the author’s life. However, this

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narrative may be nothing other than self-invention on Auster’s part. Although the factual Auster was present in the various locations described during a particular time period, did events unfold as they are portrayed? Several clues are given to suggest that the central premise of Hand to Mouth is ambiguity. The individuals Auster encounters are all either dead or not mentioned by name; thus they are unable to refute his claims. During his stay in France, a famous film director, the enigmatic Monsieur X, employs Auster as a translator. As a consequence of his interaction with Monsieur X, Auster is assigned a further post as ghostwriter for the lovesick Madame X. The experience is an unmitigated disaster from beginning to end. Who is this mysterious couple and why does Auster fail to provide real names? Did Auster actually work for the couple? It seems that the only people who can provide a definitive answer to these questions are those involved. If this incident had appeared beside other verifiable facts it could be taken at face value, but is surrounded by so many indeterminacies that it adheres to the strategies of postmodern autobiography. Auster’s experience with the film director and his wife, moreover, highlight his struggles, real or imagined, as an aspiring but penniless author. The logic of the encounter also reinforces Auster’s literary project. This “factual” couple and Auster’s impromptu journey to Mexico are not dissimilar to characters or unexpected plot twists in any one of Auster’s novels. Similar character prototypes are the maintenance men Teddy and Casey, a “vaudevillian” double act upon whom the eccentrics Flower and Stone in The Music of Chance are based, and Frank, the down-and-out salesman with whom Auster works at summer camp. Frank is an embittered alcoholic, who rejects conformity and drifts aimlessly from one job to the next. “Somehow or other,”34 Frank befriends the sixteen-year-old Auster. Frank is a former insurance agent, and explains to Auster that a series of misfortunes have resulted in his present predicament: In the space of sixteen months, he said, every person who had ever meant anything to him died. He sounded philosophical about it, almost as if he were talking about someone else, and yet there was an undertow of bitterness in his voice. First his parents, he said, then his wife, and then his two children. Diseases, accidents, and burials, and by the time they were all gone, it was as if his insides had shattered. “I just gave up,” he said. “I didn’t care what happened to me anymore, so I became a bum”35.

Auster states that the older camp workers were for the most part drifters, and his newfound friend disappears as suddenly as he had arrived. It is irrelevant

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whether Frank, who would be in a position to refute Auster’s story, is a factual individual or not. Frank’s experiences serve as a recurrent plot device in Auster’s fictional works: the individual who loses everything and the subsequent, abruptly redefined direction his life takes. In The Music of Chance, with the disappearance and/or death of Jack Pozzi, Jim Nashe finally acquires self-awareness. Nashe’s subsequent existence is not dissimilar to that of Mr. Bones, the canine protagonist of Timbuktu. After the untimely death of his master, William Guerevitch, the dog struggles to survive. Similarly, in Moon Palace, Marco Fogg is irreconcilably estranged from his lover, Kitty Wu. Fogg is reunited with his absent father, Solomon Barber, but his father’s death is the result of a freak accident. Fogg journeys to the edge of the American continent, and his quest of discovery is synonymous with spiritual rebirth. Auster castigates the opinions of critics who state that he focuses upon chance elements as a way to move a plot forward. As Auster examines the after-effects of such occurrences, his intention is to validate his fictional works. More importantly, such insistent reiteration of strange happenstance reinforces Auster’s continued belief in the power of contingency. The subsequent section of Hand to Mouth deals with Auster’s struggles as an aspiring author upon his return to New York City. Auster gains employment with Ex-Libris, a rare-book store, and is introduced to author, Jerzy Kosinski. As Auster has worked as a translator, Kosinski enlists Auster’s services as proofreader for his latest novel Cockpit. Auster works at Kosinski’s apartment and is intrigued by the author. Kosinski entertains his guest with tales of his outlandish experiences since his arrival in New York City. Auster comments upon the strength of Kosinski’s conviction, and he regards the incidents, an amalgamation of factual and fictional events, as blurring to become one definitive, yet ambiguous certainty. As a consequence, Cockpit, the subject matter of which is deception, is considered to be part autobiography, part the work of a clever, yet complex fraudster: The book was supposedly a work of fiction, but when Kosinski told me these stories, he presented them as facts, real events from his life. Did he know the difference? I can’t be sure, can’t even begin to guess, but if I had to give an answer, I would say that he did. He struck me as too clever, too cunningly aware of himself and his effect on others not to enjoy the confusion he created36.

As Auster is aware of Kosinski’s writings, the inclusion of this encounter may represent an acknowledgement from Auster, indicative of the fact that he is

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involved in a similar project to Kosinski. While the autobiographical writings of both men represent an exercise in self-invention, Kosinski shares Auster’s belief in contingency. In 1980, Fred Setterberg stated that, “Kosinski’s life will remain—by choice and conviction—an unpredictable, uncontrollable object of chance”37. It can be argued that Kosinski’s factual writings represent an extreme version of Auster’s literary project. The work of each author is linked by an emphasis on ambiguity and the question of what, if anything constitutes a verifiable truth. In Auster’s other “factual,” “autobiographical” writings, most notably The Red Notebook and Why Write? he accentuates his “authenticity” and provides a “get out clause.” In Hand to Mouth, Auster is the sole survivor of the encounters he chooses to mention. Auster completes his employment with Kosinski, and promptly meets John Lennon. Lennon visits the ExLibris office to view a collection of Man Ray photographs, and introduces himself to Auster. A rapport develops between the musician and the struggling author. Although it is quite possible that Lennon did visit the office, the inclusion of this random encounter follows on from Auster’s dealings with Kosinski, and inevitably leaves the incident open to incredulity. The reality of events that transpired during this period remains the sole property of Auster. Kosinski, Lennon and all those associated with Ex-Libris are unable to provide an alternative, and possibly, contradictory narrative. Auster reinforces the illusion of authenticity in The Red Notebook. He implores his readership to consider this series of anecdotal tales truthful. Yet, these protestations of authenticity symbolize a postmodern joke on Auster’s behalf, and are reflective of the work of an author who specializes in literary gamesmanship. In Fictions in Autobiography Paul John Eakin investigates the epistemological status of the author’s persona within twentieth-century autobiography. Eakin poses the question: When an ‘I’ speaks, and especially in autobiographical discourse, is its language in effect an original speech, a self-validating testimony to the uniqueness of the self? Or is such speech always fatally derivative? 38

In opposition to a definitive truth based upon an individual’s memory and actual experiences, the exponents of autobiographical writing are concerned with the art of self-invention. As such, they involve themselves in a complex process of self-discovery and self-creation. Eakin highlights the ambiguous nature of contemporary autobiography, and asserts that as verifiable facts are juxtaposed with the tenets of fiction and myth-making, “ . . . the fictive

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nature of selfhood is held to be a biographical fact”39. Reflective of this viewpoint, Eakin cites the example of Mary McCarthy. McCarthy refers to her Memoirs of a Catholic Girlhood, and states that over a period of time, remembered facts inevitably become fictionalized. While memory can be described as a recollection of past events, as outside influences impact upon human consciousness, actual remembered facts can alter. Eakin asks: “ . . . is the self autonomous and transcendent, or is it contingent and provisional, dependent on language and others for its very existence?”40 As Auster is concerned with the powers of contingency, his autobiographical writings adhere to the second definition of memory, a theme he investigates fully in “The Book of Memory.” “The Book of Memory” is another version of the Auster story. As it symbolizes a psychological journey into the mind of the author, the memoir is a contrast to Auster’s other autobiographical writings. A companion piece to “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first part of The Invention of Solitude, the second book represents Auster’s attempt to explain the forces that have shaped him as an individual. In his attempt to document his father’s life, Auster encounters problems. As such, Auster questions whether an individual can ever fully know, and, as a consequence, write about another. Auster initially believes that it will be easier to locate his autobiographical self. However, as he is unable to write from a first-person perspective, the subject of “The Book of Memory” becomes the ‘fictional’ A. Auster is again forced to relinquish control. It is only by writing about another person that Auster can eventually project an image of ‘true’ selfhood. A.’s concerns in relation to the concept of memory echo those expressed by Fredric Jameson in “Postmodernism and Consumer Society.” Jameson argues that postmodernism is, “ . . . an alarming and pathological symptom of a society that has become incapable of dealing with time and history”41. Jameson asserts that the postmodern perception of the self is comparable to that of a schizophrenic. Schizophrenics lack a sense of continuous memory, and they are unable to project an image of selfhood. Jameson employs the concept of schizophrenia as defined by the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan: “ . . . schizophrenic experience is an experience of isolated, disconnected, discontinuous material signifiers which fail to link up into a coherent sequence”42. As its title suggests, “The Book of Memory” is primarily concerned with A.’s musings on the power of memory. There are thirteen anecdotal tales in The Red Notebook, and there are thirteen books of memory. Auster draws connections between memory and contingency. Auster focuses upon the nature of chance, and highlights several incidents to reinforce his hypothesis. These include an unexpected encounter with an old friend

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in London, a youthful recollection, and the story of an American student, M. M. relocates to France, and discovers that he has rented the same room in which his father hid from the German army during World War II. Although each of these anecdotes may be truthful, they are interspersed with Auster’s concerns in relation to the nature of memory. As such they encourage skepticism, with an aura of certainty replaced by a sense of ambiguity. Similarly, the fact that A. remembers the story of M. and his father, may have more to do with Auster’s hypothesis with regard to the forces of contingency, as investigated in The Red Notebook. As an example of the inexplicable and ambiguous nature of contemporary life, the tale of M. and his father may have become involuntarily distorted, and distanced from the ‘authenticity’ of actual events. “The Book of Memory” was written in the wake of the death of Auster’s father, Samuel. Auster’s literary counterpart, A. attaches significance to the story of M. and his father, but accepts that ultimately, “M.’s story has no meaning”43. A. mourns the loss of his father, and ponders the predominance of arbitrary events. He resorts to memory in an attempt to exorcise his own internal demons. A. comments upon the logic of M.’s anecdotal tale, and states: “ . . . this is what haunts me. And then to realize, almost in the same breath, this is what he haunts”44. A. cites the example of Blaise Pascal, who stated that he did not possess a receptacle in which to store his memories. A. believes that recollections may over time become distorted. He is at a loss to explain voluntary and involuntary memories. A. wonders why it is that some facts are retained, with others irrecoverably lost. The act of writing becomes an act of recollection, and A. views memory as an inward voice. A. hears this voice and attempts to record an accurate version of events. However, he simultaneously intimates that reality can be unintentionally altered: “At times [the voice] wilfully distorts the story it is telling him, changing the facts to suit its whims, catering to the interests of drama rather than the truth”45. In the case of A.’s autobiographical writings, it may be this voice which dictates the details of events, and which assumes control. As such, an involuntary distortion results in a newly invented truth. A. pursues his continuing hypothesis on the power of memory, and illustrates the contrasting opinions of Francis Ponge and Samuel Beckett. A. had once met Ponge at a dinner party, and encounters the poet several years later. He introduces himself to Ponge, but does not expect their first meeting to have made an impression upon the poet. However, A. is flabbergasted to learn that Ponge can recall the minutiae of this particular evening. As a writer, Ponge does not separate the work of seeing from the work of writing.

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As a consequence, if an event, object or person is to be written about, the intricacies of each must be remembered: If a man is to be truly present among his surroundings, he must be thinking not of himself, but of what he sees. He must forget himself in order to be there. And from that forgetfulness arises the power of memory. It is a way of living one’s life so that nothing is ever lost46.

Contrary to this viewpoint, A. mentions Beckett’s opinions on Proust. Beckett playfully states: “the man with a good memory does not remember anything because he does not forget anything”47. A. struggles to categorize his opinions on memory in adherence to either definition, and adds that his investigation produces an entirely different way of thinking. The act of writing necessitates that the author be voluntarily exiled from society. A. views the author as a solitary individual, but one, who through his writing, is never truly alone. The words on the page bring to life the aspirations of the companions he desires. The artist who is inextricably removed from the wider world, however, becomes a person unable to critique his environment, and his opinions are those of an embittered cynic. During his inward quest, A. discovers that while he possesses a singular consciousness, external forces have also shaped him. Therefore, he is both a part of, and estranged from, greater society. Derek Rubin investigates the logic of A.’s existential quest: Auster discovers not some core sense of self, but his past: memories of the people, the books, the events, and the places in his life that make up this self, and from which he had felt so detached48.

A. is aware of both himself and others, and he is motivated to seek solitude in order to produce his art form. He remains content in the knowledge that he is connected to something other than just this sense of self. The inspiration for his writings is derived from his experiences, as well as from the forces that have shaped him as a person. Although A. is an advocate of this particular type of memory system, he reiterates the opinions of Pascal. A. strives for authenticity, but accepts that ultimately memory, comparable to contingency, exists independently of human consciousness: The pen will never be able to move fast enough to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost forever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity things have been lost and found and lost again. There is no way to be sure of any of this49.

With its psychological investigation of the self, “The Book of Memory” does not conform to the tenets of Eakin’s version of contemporary autobiography. As opposed to self-invention, Auster reverts to the persona of the other. The author becomes a bystander, and the reader is made aware of the preoccupations of this fictive creation. A. embarks upon his postmodern quest, and explores the processes involved in the act of writing. A. recognizes that: “He has spent the greater part of his adult life hunched over a small rectangle of wood, concentrating on an even smaller rectangle of white paper”50. A. is distanced from his sense of self, and he strives to ascertain those factors that motivate this career choice. The answers are revealed as A. resorts to memory. The act of recollection, in which events are replayed ad infinitum, comes to represent an extreme version of hell. Similarly, and in adherence to Hassan’s definition of the characteristics evident within literary postmodernism, A. refers to the degree of duality associated with memory: “A world in which everything is double, in which the same thing always happens twice. Memory: the space in which a thing happens for the second time”51. Hassan asserts that as the individual is exiled, identity becomes diffracted. In solitude, A. states: “ . . . the world has shrunk to the size of the room”52. At this point, A. can embark upon the search for the self. The books of memory allow him to investigate the multiple personalities that contribute to the persona of A., and as a consequence Auster. Another defining trait is the notion that words involuntarily appear and immediately declare themselves invalid. Hassan states that Beckett was a prime exponent of this type of literature. Hassan argues that Beckett’s sense of epistemological doubt was the result of a belief in the philosophy expressed by Gorgias of Lentini: “Nothing is. If anything is, it cannot be known. If anything is, and can be known, it cannot be expressed in speech”53. Auster explores this theme in many of his writings. Often, the words on the page result in confusion. In Ghosts, the second installment of The New York Trilogy, Blue initially struggles to comprehend the subject matter of Walden by the nineteenth-century ‘Transcendental’ author Henry David Thoreau. While a degree of clarity eventually emerges, Blue is unable to apply the same philosophy to the contents of his own notebook: “ . . . his words, instead of drawing out the facts and making them sit palpably in the world, have induced them to disappear”54. Opposed to this viewpoint, the written word also serves as a form of salvation for Auster’s various protagonists. Despite the restrictions imposed

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upon the inhabitants of the central location of In the Country of Last Things, Blume triumphs. Her notebooks arrive at their intended destination. Although Blume’s written account has made its way into the public domain, the opening words of In the Country of Last Things contribute to the degree of confusion associated with Auster’s fictional works. The first person narrative voice is Blume’s, but Blume refers to herself as both ‘she’ and ‘I.’ Due to her traumatic experiences Blume may be distanced from her sense of selfhood. However it is entirely possible that someone else has read and, perhaps, censored the text: These are the last things, she wrote. One by one they disappear and never come back. I can tell you of the ones I have seen, of the ones that are no more, but I doubt there will be time. It is all happening too fast now, and I cannot keep up55.

Auster creates the persona of A., and is able to commence his quest: “The first word appears only at a moment when nothing can be explained anymore, at some instant of experience that defies all sense”56. As Blume reinforces this viewpoint, the written word appears at the point of mental collapse. Blume struggles to remember and accurately depict her experiences. As the author’s persona possesses a life of its own, Blume involuntarily locates the narrative voice: The words come only when I think I won’t be able to find them anymore, at the moment I despair of ever bringing them out again. Each day brings the same struggle, the same blankness, the same desire to forget and then not to forget. When it begins, it is never anywhere but here, never anywhere but at this limit that the pencil begins to write. The story starts and stops, goes forward and then loses itself, and between each word, what silences, what words escape, vanish, never to be seen again57.

This analysis of The Invention of Solitude proves problematic, however. Symptomatic of Auster’s postmodernity, there are factors at play other than to conform to the confines of one particular definition. A.’s inward journey, his view of the book as an image of solitude, and his belief that memory can be employed in order to harness encroaching death, are all opinions inspired by the modernist tradition. It is modernism rather than postmodernism that influences A.’s concerns with regard to consciousness. Very little distinction is drawn between the solitary individual and his room, the inner sanctum of his thought process:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity Memory as a room, as a body, as a skull, as a skull that encloses the room in which a body sits. As in the image: “a man sat alone in his room”58.

A.’s psychological investigation is similar to that undertaken by many modernist authors. Solitude is employed in order to enhance personal development. In Modernism, Peter Childs refers to the traits evident within modernist literature: In prose, Modernism is associated with attempts to render human subjectivity in ways more real than realism: to represent consciousness, perception, emotion, meaning and the individual’s relation to society through interior monologue, stream of consciousness, tunnelling, defamiliarization, rhythm, irresolution59.

In A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf explores the ways in which female authors, such as Aphra Behn, had been largely suppressed and erased from literary history in the 1920s. Woolf invents an imaginary character— Shakespeare’s sister—and constructs a life story, radically different from that of the famous ‘brother.’ Woolf insists that the established patriarchy has contributed to this eradication of female authorship, and states that in her journey of self-discovery, she has reached one definitive conclusion: All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved60.

Similarly, in his “Pages for Kafka,” Auster maintains that Franz Kafka, in the production of his fictional works, was continually involved in a solitary journey of discovery. Kafka strives to uncover the various elements that contribute to the persona of the author, and hungers for some form of redemption. As Kafka embarks upon his own inward quest, he becomes distanced from his sense of self. Kafka is finally able to return to his writings, and according to Auster’s characterization, Kafka’s temporary exile results in renewed selfawareness: He wanders. On a road that is not a road, on an earth that is not his earth, an exile in his own body. Whatever is given to him, he will refuse. Whatever is spread before him, he will turn his back on. He will refuse, the better to hunger for what he has denied himself. For to enter the

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promised land is to despair of ever coming near it. Therefore, he holds everything away from him, at arm’s length, at life’s length, and comes closest to arriving when farthest from his destination. And yet he goes on. And from one step to the next he finds nothing but himself. Not even himself, but the shadow of what he will become61.

Modernist literature represents a contrast to nineteenth-century realist fiction. A zone of unfamiliarity has replaced the established cornerstones of realist prose fiction namely, extensive descriptions of characters and locations, and an all-powerful narrative voice, whether the voice be pitched in a first or third-person register. Perceptions of reality have also been altered. In contrast to the tenets of premodern literature—reliable narrators and linear plots—Childs asserts that modernism subverts these existing simplistic conventions. Childs highlights the literary devices employed within modernist and premodern fiction, and states: Modernist writing ‘plunges’ the reader into a confusing and difficult mental landscape which cannot be immediately understood but which must be moved through and mapped by the reader in order to understand its limits and meanings62.

As the conventions of realist fiction have been challenged or removed, the reader is presented with a text, the subject matter of which is often ambiguous and contradictory: The previous dominant modes had been a poetics of mimesis, verisimilitude and realism. By contrast, Modernism marked a clear movement towards increased sophistication, studied mannerism, profound introversion, technical display, self-skepticism and general anti-representationalism63.

Arguably, Auster has employed modernist literary devices within the majority of his writings. Moon Palace, The Music of Chance, Leviathan, Timbuktu and Mr. Vertigo explore the individual’s existential descent into the abyss and subsequent quest of discovery. The narratives adhere to the tenets of ‘stream of consciousness’ novels, and investigate the “ . . . movement of thoughts and impressions as they flow through”64 the minds of the various protagonists. Within these novels Auster also employs traits pertinent to modernist psychological fiction: “Timeshifts, flashbacks and juxtaposition of events”65. In Moon Palace and Mr. Vertigo, the narrators, Marco Stanley

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Fogg and Walter Rawley, detail their youthful experiences. Although Fogg is distanced from his sense of selfhood, he discovers that his story eerily mirrors that of his father, Solomon Barber, and grandfather, Thomas Effing. Similarly, Mr. Bones, canine protagonist of Timbuktu reminisces about the formative years of his master, William Guerevitch, while the reflective motif in The Music of Chance, ensures that each event is mirrored and reduplicated, yet inevitably altered. The subject matter of The New York Trilogy, In the Country of Last Things, and The Invention of Solitude, contribute to a degree of confusion experienced by the reader. Although Auster has employed modernist techniques, critics have described these texts as postmodern. Exponents of literary modernism, figures such as Franz Kafka and James Joyce inspire Auster. Indeed it may be the case that Auster has inherited the modernist mantle. However, as postmodernism has surpassed modernism as a school of thought, Auster’s writings have often been interpreted according to the logic of the postmodernist school of literary devices. III Since the publication of City of Glass, Auster has produced a series of novels and autobiographical works. Common themes and recurring character types dominate Auster’s literary project. Auster states: “If all my books were put together in one volume, they would form the book of my life so far, a multifaceted picture of who I am”66. Elements of Auster’s life are evident within his fictional works, and the majority of his protagonists share Auster’s background and profession. The writer, Peter Aaron, narrator of Leviathan, even has the same initials as Auster, and meets his wife Iris, an anagram of Auster’s wife’s name, Siri, on the same date and in the same location that Auster did. If Aaron can be considered one version of Auster, another, a Brooklyn based writer named Paul Auster, appears as a character in City of Glass. Auster claims that his writings constitute the “book of my life so far.” He is adamant however, that although the novels contain factual events, locations and characters, they are nothing other than fictional works. As Auster is primarily interested in storytelling, he asserts that he has translated events from his life to fiction. Any such occurrences are significant in that they contribute to the unfolding chain of events. However, it can be argued that Auster’s inclusion of autobiographical elements within his fiction ultimately contributes to the degree of ambiguity surrounding his writings. As the protagonists of the novels inhabit Auster’s ‘factual’ universe, they share the author’s experiences. Auster’s readers attempt

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to ascertain where fact ends and fiction begins, and some readers have been unable to distinguish between the factual and fictional Austers. In Auster’s opinion, these individuals wish to attach their own carefully constructed label to his writings. Auster insists that these readers are guilty of misreading his novels: Critics confuse the thoughts and statements of the characters in my books with my own beliefs . . . doesn’t anyone see that the things “Paul Auster” says to Quinn in City of Glass are in fact just the opposite of what I myself stand for? Can’t a writer poke fun at himself—make himself appear ridiculous and stupid—without being misunderstood?67

Auster is unhappy with the critical reception that some of his writings have received, and his claim that there are no similarities between himself and his fictional counterparts, suggests that these critics have failed to comprehend his postmodernity. Of all the theorists of literary postmodernism, it is Calinescu who comes closest to defining this aspect of Auster’s writings. Calinescu’s postmodernist devices include “ . . . a new existential or ‘ontological’ use of narrative perspectivism, different from the mainly psychological one found in modernism,” and “ . . . extreme versions of the ‘unreliable narrator’”68. Auster can be compared to John Fowles, who in The French Lieutenant’s Woman appears as a character and provides his protagonists with free will. Auster employs postmodernist literary devices in order to remove the mantle of authorial control. In contrast to the former all-powerful author, Auster relinquishes responsibility and assumes the role of a facilitator. These narratives, although penned by Auster, actually become the property of fictional characters. Auster addresses the blurring of fact and fiction and the role of the author in Mr. Vertigo. The elderly, Walter Rawley, formerly known throughout the USA as “Walt the Wonder Boy,” pens this “autobiographical” work. A detailed and “truthful” account of his extraordinary formative years, Rawley’s narrative opens with the intriguing, yet outlandish statement: I was twelve years old the first time I walked on water. The man in the black clothes taught me how to do it . . . I did what no American had done before me, what no one has ever done since69.

As is the case with Auster’s autobiographical writings, Rawley’s narrative encourages both skepticism and incredulity. Is the reader presented with an accurate account of Rawley’s early years, or, has Rawley, an embittered and unfulfilled individual, resorted to the art of storytelling and self-invention?

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Mr. Vertigo adheres to the tenets of a Bildungsroman, and in his transformation to ‘Walt the Wonder Boy,’ Rawley undergoes a series of lifechanging triumphs and disasters. Rawley is in the care of a largely absent aunt and uncle. His uncle is primarily interested in the price attached to his nephew, and Rawley is sold to an eccentric showman, Master Yehudi. Yehudi tutors Rawley in the art of levitation, and over a period of three years, the boy is subjected to a series of bizarre tests and rituals. Rawley is buried alive, and subsequently resurrected. His initiation is complete, but his psyche remains irrecoverably altered: From then on, everything that happens to you on the surface is connected to those hours you spent underground. A little seed of craziness has been planted in your head, and even though you’ve won the struggle to survive, nearly everything else has been lost. Death lives inside you, eating away at your innocence and your hope, and in the end you’re left with nothing but the dirt, the solidity of the dirt, the everlasting power and triumph of the dirt70.

Rawley is introduced to Yehudi’s ‘family.’ He encounters Native American Mother Sioux and Aesop, a crippled child protégé. The ostracized Rawley finds solace within this group of outsiders. However, Rawley soon becomes a helpless bystander while the Ku Klux Klan murders his adopted family. His embittered uncle, Slim Sparks, subsequently kidnaps his nephew. Rawley is estranged from society and abandoned by his relatives. He will form an intense bond with his surrogate family, and this level of intimacy is reinforced by his impromptu decision to re-establish contact with Marion Witherspoon, Yehudi’s former lover, and Rawley’s surrogate ‘mother.’ Rawley’s career is cut short with the onset of puberty. His decision to relocate to California is hindered, due to his revenge-driven uncle’s violent attack on Yehudi and him. Yehudi is mortally wounded, and Rawley is forced to terminate the life of his mentor. Rawley revenges himself upon his uncle, and strives for some form of redemption. However, due to past experiences, this cannot be achieved. All that has gone before determines his existence, and Rawley believes that he has destroyed any prospect of future happiness: The best part of me was lying under the ground with him in the California desert . . . I strutted around Chicago as if I were going places, as if I were a regular Mr Somebody, but underneath it all I was no one. Without the master I was no one, and I wasn’t going anywhere71.

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Rawley assumes his uncle’s position with Chicago gangster and bootlegger, Bingo Walsh. He quickly works his way through the ranks, and eventually manages a casino, aptly named Mr. Vertigo’s. Success and material wealth are associated with his new life. However, Rawley is inextricably haunted by his past, and experiences an existential descent into the void: I was one-hundred-percent responsible for my own downfall, but knowing that doesn’t make it any less painful to remember. I was all the way at the top when I stumbled, and it ended in a real Humpty Dumpty for me, a spectacular swan-dive into oblivion72.

The fictional Rawley meets the factual baseball legend, Dizzy Dean. Rawley begins to equate his fall from grace with that of the baseball pitcher. Unable to recover from injury, Dean’s career spiraled into decline at the end of the 1930s. Rawley decides that Dean must die, and lures him to the casino. Rawley intends to annihilate any existing remnant of Walt the Wonder Boy: For his own good, Dizzy had to die, and I was just the man to urge him into making the right decision. Not only for his sake, but for my sake as well. I had the weapon, I had the arguments, I had the power of madness on my side. I would destroy Dizzy Dean, and in so doing I would finally destroy myself73.

Rawley’s plans are thwarted with the unexpected arrival of Dean’s wife. Rawley is arrested, and given the choice of prison or conscription into the army. He opts for the latter. The experiences of adulthood cannot compare to the fantastical adventures of youth. Symptomatic of his inability to contextualize his past, Rawley’s short-lived first marriage has all but been eroded from memory: I let myself get talked into marriage. It didn’t last more than half a year, and the whole experience is so foggy to me now, I have trouble remembering what my wife looked like. If I don’t think hard about it, I can’t even remember her name74.

Rawley’s second wife is Molly Quinn, and while the couple enjoy a life of domestic bliss, Rawley glosses over the details of his marriage. Molly Quinn is the aunt of a college professor named Daniel Quinn. Whether there is a connection between this individual and the writer and sometime ‘Auster impersonator’ from City of Glass, is never revealed. It may be the case

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that Anna Blume, protagonist of In the Country of Last Things, retrieves the passport of this Daniel Quinn. Alternatively, it is possible that there is no connection between any of the Daniel Quinns. Comparable to the variety of individuals named Paul evident in Auster’s writings, the name Daniel Quinn appears a staple of Auster’s literary project. Indeed, in Hand to Mouth Auster states that he submitted book reviews to a college magazine and adopted a pseudonym that would seem to have remained with him: “Quinn was the name I chose for myself ”75. Rawley insists that he presents an accurate version of events, and maintains that authenticity is his primary concern: “Every word in these thirteen books is true, but I’d bet both my elbows there aren’t a hell of a lot of people who’d swallow that”76. Auster is interested in the number thirteen. There are thirteen books of memory, and thirteen anecdotes in The Red Notebook. As Rawley expresses a similar interest in this number, it may be the case that he, like Auster, is a storyteller. This ‘autobiographical’ narrative is more entertaining than the factual tale of an elderly widower and former soldier, now approaching the closing years of life. Although Rawley claims that the act of writing is alien to him, he recalls the autobiography penned by his friend, Aesop. Rawley is intrigued by Aesop’s writing style and subject matter. He states that as a gullible young boy, he accepted every word at face value. As a budding author, Aesop is fully aware of the literary devices used in the production of storification: “I laughed at some parts, I cried at others, and what more can a person want from a book than to feel the prick of such delights and sorrows?”77 Arguably, Rawley has applied this same philosophy to his writing, and his outlandish narrative meets audience expectations. Rawley castigates the opinions of his detractors, and refuses to publish his autobiography. He details his motivation for writing, yet remains self-consciously ambiguous. The narrative exists within the uncertain terrain of memories, and the elderly author strives for authenticity. However, he simultaneously struggles to recall the detail of a long forgotten dream: I realize now that the book must have come to me in a dream—but one of those dreams you can’t remember, that vanish the instant you wake up and open your eyes on the world78.

As an examination of American life and the desire for myth-making in opposition to a discernable sense of history, Mr. Vertigo can be compared to other contemporary works of American fiction. Rather than either a modernist or postmodernist text, this is a peculiarly American fable. Thus, the hardships and struggles endured by Rawley become synonymous with the

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definitive American success and failure story. Can Mr. Vertigo be classified as a “postmodern” novel? Auster returns to familiar territory, with the question of what constitutes a definitive truth, the significance of random contingent happenings, and the protagonist’s descent into the abyss, with his existence determined by his reaction to life-changing events. In Beyond the Red Notebook, Dennis Barone argues that Mr. Vertigo, the story of the boy who could fly, investigates Auster’s concerns in relation to Philippe Petit’s On the High Wire: When read carefully, the book is transformed into the story of a quest, an exemplary tale of one man’s search for perfection . . . It seems to me that anyone who has ever tried to do something well, anyone who has ever made personal sacrifices for an art or an idea, will have no trouble understanding what it is about79.

In opposition to the tenets of literary postmodernism, emphasis throughout Mr. Vertigo is firmly placed on, “ . . . a stable subject rather than a shifting one”80. Barone considers the novel’s place within Auster’s writings, and states that it represents a digression on the author’s part: “If destructive acts tied to a confused aesthetics and moral sense dominate the trilogy, in this novel creative acts sprung from a shared purpose predominate”81. Auster believes that contingency impacts upon human consciousness. However, the individual controls his or her own destiny. Thus, while it is true that Auster’s protagonists share his experiences, as a writer, his concerns are the ways in which these diverse individuals react to particular sets of circumstances. Barone details Auster’s postmodernity: Auster’s postmodern self-fashioning does not end in aimless purposelessness or in a do-your-own-thing individualism. While he does not refuse to forsake the premodern notion of the individual so that a vestige of renaissance humanism can remain, he does examine in all of his fiction the consequences of actions taken in one’s self-fashioning82.

Symptomatic of his literary project, those characters, which at a first glance appear to be prototypes of Auster, are often the individuals who possess a limited perception of the workings of the world. Auster’s protagonists are blinkered, and indifference and corresponding apathy result in estranged isolation. However, through ardour each protagonist reaches a degree of self-awareness. Auster equates this level of comprehension with recognition of the individual’s place within the world. Invariably, Auster criticizes both

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himself and his chosen career, and his fictional writers are for the most part flawed. Peter Aaron writes the novel Leviathan. Aaron surrenders his novel to the FBI, and may inadvertently leave himself and his friends open to arrest. Aaron’s friend and fellow author, Benjamin Sachs, abandons the trappings of his previous existence. Sachs opts for militancy and embarks upon a personal crusade to rejuvenate the American ethos. Marco Stanley Fogg, protagonist of Moon Palace, meticulously reads every book in his uncle’s extensive collection. However, Fogg comes to view the written word as a hindrance and a distraction from reality. Fogg rejects the written word and becomes immersed in the logic of his nihilistic quest. Auster is at his most self-deprecating in Timbuktu. The novel’s disgruntled and beatific protagonist, William Guerevitch, remembers his college roommate, Paul. Paul is another character who appears based upon the factual, Paul Auster. Guerevitch berates the fact that his former roommate has achieved literary success. His viewpoint simultaneously castigates the all-powerful author’s desire for publication and recognition: . . . a guy named Anster, Omster, something like that—who had gone on to write a number of so-so books and had once promised Willy to find a publisher for his poems, but of course Willy had never sent him the manuscript and that was that, but it proved that he could have been published if he’d wanted to be—he just didn’t want to, that’s all, and who the fuck cared about that vainglorious bullshit anyway? The doing was what mattered, not what you did with it after it was done83.

Another writer who is initially blind to what is obvious is the narrator of “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story”—Paul. Paul lives in Brooklyn, the same neighborhood as Auster, and is commissioned to produce an article for the Christmas edition of The New York Times, the same newspaper in which Auster’s story appears. Paul is unable to overcome a case of writer’s block, and explains the situation to his friend Auggie Wren. Paul submits a story based upon an incident from his friend’s past. This supposedly factual tale is equipped with several claims to authenticity. As the title suggests, this is Wren’s story. From the outset, the author Paul insists that, “ . . . the whole business about the lost wallet and the blind woman and the Christmas dinner is just as he told it to me”84. Wren is in pursuit of an escaping shoplifter but unable to catch up. He chances upon the wallet the thief has dropped. Wren visits the shoplifter’s address to return the wallet, and is greeted by the blind Granny Ethel. Ethel assumes that Wren is her shoplifter grandson, Robert. Wren informs Ethel that he is Robert, and spends Christmas Day

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with the old woman. Wren insists that rather than deceive the old woman she is his kindred spirit. Although they indulge in role-play, each is aware of the reality of the situation. However, both are prepared to suspend belief for this brief period: I wasn’t trying to trick, though. It was like a game we’d both decided to play—without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn’t her grandson Robert85.

Robert uses his grandmother’s blindness to his advantage. Wren discovers some stolen cameras hidden in Ethel’s bathroom, and takes one of the cameras. He leaves the wallet with the sleeping Ethel. Equipped with the stolen camera, Wren embarks upon his life’s work. He photographs his street corner at exactly the same moment each morning. Paul casually looks at the various photograph albums that have been amassed over the years, but is initially disinterested. Upon a second viewing, he realizes that he must follow Wren’s advice: “If you don’t take time to look, you’ll never manage to see anything”86. Paul applies the same philosophy to the tale that Wren has recited, and it is with hindsight that Paul accepts he has been victim of a cleverly constructed hoax: I had been tricked into believing him, and that was the only thing that mattered. As long as there’s one person to believe it, there’s no story that can’t be true87.

Rather than express anger, Paul admires Wren’s storytelling skills. Wren’s conviction and powers of persuasion ensure that his audience—the unsuspecting Paul—accepts every word at face value. “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story” serves as inspiration for Smoke. This cinematic tale of redemption is enacted against the backdrop of the borough of Brooklyn. Wren’s story appears at the climax of the film, and follows a meeting between Wren and Paul, now known as Paul Benjamin. The rendition of the story is perhaps the most important scene in Smoke. Actor Harvey Keitel plays the role of Wren, and delivers the Christmas story as a monologue. Auster commends Keitel’s performance: It’s a rare thing in movies to watch someone tell a story for ten minutes. The camera is on Harvey’s face for almost the whole time, and because Harvey is such a powerful and believable actor, he manages to pull it off. When all is said and done, it’s probably the best scene in the film88.

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A consummate storyteller, Wren sets the scene for his festive tale: “It was the summer of ‘seventy-six, back when I first started working for Vinnie. The summer of the bicentennial”89. The cinematic version of the tale differs slightly from Auster’s original story. The shoplifter is Roger Goodwin, who had previously assaulted Benjamin. The scenes between Wren and Ethel are silent and filmed in black and white, and the melancholic and melodic “Innocent When You Dream,” by musician Tom Waits serves as background music. The choice of this particular song conveys Auster’s attitude towards the techniques involved in oratory, as well as the harmless nature of mythmaking and storification: It’s such a sad old feeling the fields are soft and green it’s memories that I’m stealing but you’re innocent when you dream90.

Auster states that the cinematic technique is another crucial factor that contributes to the story’s authenticity. This degree of intimacy suggests that Wren brings his audience into his confidence. As the audience is transfixed, there is no reason to suspect duplicity. At the close of the film, the camera is trained upon the faces of Keitel and his co-star William Hurt. As the story progresses the camera focuses upon Keitel. By the end of the story, the audience looks directly at Keitel’s mouth: . . . and then suddenly, the camera pushes in even closer, as close as it can get. The viewer is not at all prepared for it. It’s as if the camera is bulldozing through a brick wall, breaking down the last barrier against genuine human intimacy. In some way, the emotional resolution of the entire film is contained in that shot91.

Benjamin is initially a willing believer. However, he observes Wren’s smile and immediately becomes suspicious. Wren marvels at the fact that Benjamin has no reason for skepticism. Auster’s stage directions indicate that Wren is indeed involved in the process of storification: “A wicked grin is spreading across Auggie’s face. The look in his eyes is so mysterious, so fraught with the glow of some inner delight”92. A storyteller and writer of fiction, Benjamin nonetheless falls for Wren’s powers of persuasion. Wren proves himself gifted in the duplicitous art of self-invention, and Benjamin commends his friend’s narrative and oratory skills:

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Bullshit is a real talent, Auggie. To make up a good story, a person has to know how to push all the right buttons . . . I’d say you’re up there among the masters93.

“Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story” addresses similar themes as Auster’s autobiographical writings, and represents the author’s musings in relation to the question of what constitutes a definitive truth: “Everything gets turned upside down in ‘Auggie Wren.’ What’s stealing? What’s giving? What’s lying? What’s telling the truth? All these questions are reshuffled in rather odd and unorthodox ways”94. Auster asserts that any story can be believed. He not only contributes to the degree of skepticism with which his factual writings are received, but calls into question the ethos of the grand narratives of society. While Benjamin has been duped by Wren’s tale, are the inhabitants of Western society at large, as they participate in the rituals of Christmas, victims of, or willing accomplices to, myth-making on a global scale? The authenticity of the Christmas story lies open to interpretation. It is the general acceptance of this as an established fact, which ensures that it has become an unquestionable aspect of contemporary society. Barone states that as Auster investigates these issues, he focuses on, “ . . . the nature of truth and the nature of belief, and on the relation between truth and belief and action and responsibility,” thus he comments “ . . . in a profound way on the Christmas story”95. CONCLUSION Auster’s most popular work remains The New York Trilogy, which comprises the novels City of Glass, Ghosts, and The Locked Room. The New York Trilogy established Auster’s reputation as a definitive ‘postmodernist,’ and has been the subject of much critical scrutiny. In this respect, it is my intention to examine Auster’s main body of writing and the ways in which this has been influenced, and determined by the subject matter of Auster’s first, and best known postmodern novel. The similarities between The New York Trilogy and Auster’s other writings, ensure that Auster remains a self-consciously and self-deprecating postmodern author. Indeed, this book will illustrate that Auster is preoccupied with a recurrent set of themes and issues, such as the plight of the individual, the role of the author, the inadequacy of language, and the overwhelming lack of cognitive certainty associated with the contemporary, largely indifferent, and contingent world that Auster and his protagonists inhabit.

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In this opening chapter I explored the postmodern concept of skepticism. I will go on to investigate Auster’s interpretation of other features of his literary postmodernity namely, the role of contingency, the notion of self-invention, urban dislocation, authorship and authority, and multiple and indeterminate narrative perspectives. I will initially concentrate upon Auster’s less well-known autobiographical writings The Red Notebook and Why Write? Subsequently, I will turn my attention to a full range of Auster’s later fictional writings. I will investigate the role of contingency, and Auster’s evocation of estranged solitude in The Music of Chance. In Moon Palace, Auster addresses father and son relationships, and constructs a postmodern fictional autobiography, more than vaguely reminiscent of his biography for his late father, “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude. In the Country of Last Things deals with urban dislocation, and the inadequacy of language. Auster explores the concepts of authorship and authority in Leviathan, and examines the contemporary author’s political and social responsibilities. In my analysis of Auster’s literary project, I will contest that Auster acts as a social commentator. Therefore, there is a political and spiritual dimension to many of Auster’s fictional writings. Indeed, in Moon Palace Auster critiques American foreign policy and the repercussions of the Vietnam conflict. In Leviathan, Auster constructs the autobiography of a modern American terrorist in the making, and questions the concept of American democracy as promoted by the symbol of the nation itself. As opposed to the obvious postmodernist literary devices associated with his earlier writings, in Leviathan, Auster directly challenges the forces at work within his country. Although Auster has been described as an exponent of literary postmodernism, his novels for the most part, critique the ethos of the American continent, and the policies enforced by successive American governments. In this respect, Auster’s literary postmodernity encapsulates the viewpoint that, in the absence of meaningful connection, self-knowledge is required to ensure that the individual can combat the machinations of the omnipresent, bureaucratic system. While Auster’s writing style has developed since publication of his first major work, his writings continue to adhere to the tenets of literary postmodernism. As will be illustrated during the course of this book, Auster returns to recurrent themes and character types in the majority of his writings, with very little distinction drawn between the protagonists of each of the novels. Father and son relationships reverberate throughout Auster’s literary universe, and these relationships seem inspired by Auster’s connection with his late father. As has been highlighted in this chapter, Auster incorporates elements from his life within his fictional narratives. Auster’s protagonists are invari-

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ably writers, and in my fourth chapter, I suggest that Sidney Orr, the protagonist of Auster’s 2004 novel Oracle Nights, can be compared to the narrator of The Locked Room. Auster is again concerned with the author’s struggle to embark upon the fraught process of composition. More significantly, as Auster returns to familiar territory, the newly widowed Orr becomes a parallel version of Daniel Quinn, protagonist of City of Glass. Indeed, Auster’s various narratives appear to exist in an indeterminate and personalized timeframe, and the subject matter of Oracle Nights seems inspired to a degree by Auster’s first novel. As Auster pens a version of the same story, there is a cyclical effect to his writings, which contributes towards his status as a postmodern author. Auster resorts to the art of self-invention in the majority of his writings, and this disconcerting use of narrative perspectives, further ensures that Auster can be labeled a postmodern author. However, as has been stated in this chapter, the modernist tradition simultaneously influences Auster. Indeed, Auster’s writings, for the most part, comprise an amalgamation of modernism and postmodernism, yet cannot merely be circumscribed by the remit of any one particular movement.

Chapter Two

“Our Lives Are No More Than the Sum of Manifold Contingencies”: Paul Auster’s Ambiguous Postmodern Philosophy

I Throughout his writings, Paul Auster focuses upon the lack of certainty associated with contemporary life. The majority of Auster’s protagonists are profoundly affected by their reactions to contingent occurrences and cannot dismiss the significance of these random events. The Auster protagonist insists that he or she must seize the opportunity that has been presented. Any other response will result in a dilution of self-worth. The presence of the unexpected often serves as a means of personal salvation. Auster believes that, while chance may determine an individual’s subsequent existence, the ways in which each individual reacts can be rationalized. Auster is opposed to a worldview of prevailing and inexplicable chaos. He asserts that each action influences every subsequent reaction. As they contemplate the direction their lives have taken, the majority of Auster’s fictional creations express a similar viewpoint. Anna Blume, protagonist of In the Country of Last Things, writes: Our lives are no more than the sum of manifold contingencies, and no matter how diverse they might be in their details, they all share an essential randomness in their design: this then that, and because of that, this1.

Marco Stanley Fogg, protagonist of Moon Palace both shares and reinforces Blume’s opinions. After his self-enforced exile from society, Fogg articulates his hypothesis: “Our lives are determined by manifold contingencies . . . and every day we struggle against these shocks and accidents in order to keep our balance”2. Thus, while contingency is predominant within Auster’s fictional universe, human reaction and interaction become the author’s primary concerns. 35

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Auster’s conception of ‘chance’ involves the likelihood of unexpected and seemingly random events occurring at any particular time, irrespective of individual circumstance or location, and any subsequent situations that result as a consequence of the original action. Auster refers to the concerns investigated in his writings, and formulates his thesis on the uncertain nature of the forces of contingency: . . . what I’m talking about is the presence of the unpredictable, the utterly bewildering nature of human experience. From one moment to the next, anything can happen. Our life-long certainties about the world can be demolished in a single second. In philosophical terms, I’m talking about the powers of contingency. Our lives don’t really belong to us you see—they belong to the world, and in spite of our efforts to make sense of it, the world is a place beyond our understanding3.

Auster has been denigrated for emphasizing the random, and occasionally, haphazard nature of contemporary existence. Indeed, critics have argued that, as Auster employs chance as a component of his writings, he in fact labors a well-worn postmodern literary device. In response, Auster insists that the inspiration for his writings is derived from events that for the most part have determined his own psyche. Auster states: In the strictest sense of the word, I consider myself a realist. Chance is a part of reality: we are continually shaped by the forces of coincidence, the unexpected occurs with almost numbing regularity in all our lives . . . To put it another way: truth is stranger than fiction. What I am after, I suppose, is to write fiction as strange as the world I live in4.

This is a world in which inexplicable occurrences predominate. Auster maintains that he is at a loss to provide a definitive reason for the continued existence of coincidence. Auster is self-consciously ambiguous in relation to the debate with regard to coincidence and destiny. He asserts that the issue is open to interpretation, and advocates a belief in the former option. Destiny implies that as some unknown higher force controls individuals, they are unable to act independently. Auster’s opinions on chance are similar to those expressed by a range of other postmodern authors and thinkers, many of whom have been influential in determining the way their readerships would come to view the world. In Chance and Necessity Jacques Monod explores the philosophy of human biology with specific reference to evolution. As such, Monod investigates the

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workings of chance within the context of genetic mutations. In this ongoing debate, physicists such as Einstein and Laplace have discounted probability theory. They argue that chance is an extension of human ignorance, and favor a deterministic picture of the world. Laplace defines determinism as: An intelligence which, at a given instant, would know all the forces by which Nature is animated, and the respective situation of all the elements of which it is composed, if furthermore it were vast enough to submit all these data to analysis, would in the same formula encompass the motions of the largest bodies of the universe, and those of the most minute atom: nothing for it would be uncertain, and the future as well as the past would be present to its eyes5.

Monod and other scientists such as Rene Thom and Ilya Prigogine have called Laplace’s theory into question. The concept of determinism is open to interpretation, given that, “ . . . the recognition of the role of chance has rendered the theory of natural selection possible”6. Monod refers to games such as dice (‘craps’) or roulette, and states that both are termed ‘games of chance’ since it is impossible for an individual to predict the throw of the dice or the spinning of the roulette ball. Monod contrasts the fact that chance is ultimately associated with the unpredictable outcome of the games, and examines the notion of contingency resulting from, “ . . . what may be called ‘absolute coincidences,’ those, that is to say, which stem from the intersection of two totally independent chains of events”7. Monod illustrates one such ‘absolute coincidence,’ and refers to, “ . . . the parable of the workman and the physician,” the details of which would not be out of place in one of Auster’s fictional works8. Dr. Brown walks by a building, the roof to which Jones is making emergency repairs. At the precise moment Brown passes, Jones accidentally drops his hammer, and hits the doctor on the head. This results in Brown’s death from a fractured skull. As Brown is a victim of coincidence, Monod stresses the significance of, “ . . . the complete independence of two causal chains of events whose convergence produces the accident”9. Auster and other postmodernists would argue that chance has played a pivotal role in the doctor’s death. However, within the tenets of Laplace’s hypothesis, as contingency is excluded, Brown’s destiny was already plotted. As such, the doctor was and always has been unable to prevent the accident from occurring. Dr. Brown “ . . . has been fated to die under Jones’s hammer ever since the beginning of time”10. While Monod questions Laplace’s doctrine, his pessimistic opinions with regard to the existence of randomness indicate the continuing problematic relationship

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between science and contingency. Monod states: “Man knows at last that he is alone in the universe’s indifferent immensity out of which he emerged only by chance”11. In The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge Jean-Francois Lyotard states that postmodernism: “ . . . designates the state of our culture following the transformations which, since the end of the nineteenth century, have altered the game rules for science, literature and the arts”12. Lyotard investigates the defining limits and paradoxes of classical knowledge systems. According to the rhetoric of these institutions, contingency has no part to play, as all knowledge is determined by an overriding principle of cause and effect. For Lyotard, though, the grand narratives that have been established over time by society are flawed, and have been replaced by a collection of little narratives, with no particular system of values, or “ . . . the old image of the supreme Determinant”13 in overall control. Lyotard argues that developments in science have rendered the grand narratives fabular. He explores the ‘postmodern condition,’ and states: “I define postmodern as incredulity toward metanarratives. This incredulity is undoubtedly a product of progress in the sciences”14. Like Monod, Lyotard refers to Einstein’s opposition to the idea of chance as a factor in human evolution. Lyotard asserts that contingency cannot be as easily discounted though, and explores the level of ‘primary chance’ associated with evolution. He argues that this “ . . . would have to be attributed to cunning—in other words, to a choice, itself left up to chance, between a number of possible, pure statistics”15. Lyotard highlights the impact of chance events upon human consciousness: In the human sciences . . . the referent (man) is a participant in the game, one that speaks and develops a strategy (a mixed strategy, perhaps) to counter that of the scientist: here, the kind of chance with which the scientist is confronted is not object based or indifferent, but behavioural or strategic—in other words, agonistic16.

The principle of consensus about knowledge is also called into question, as this consensus has been established by a collection of like-minded individuals, and ultimately contributes to legitimize the dominant value system. Consensus leaves little room for any advancement in knowledge. New theories and scientific discoveries all fall into the category of the predictable. Lyotard is concerned with the postmodern and opts for fragmentation as opposed to a legitimate or definitive truth. His concept of postmodernism favours “ . . . paradox, paralogy, parabasis, paracriticism, the openness of brokenness, unjustified margins”17. In opposition to the prevailing mindset of clas-

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sical thought, Lyotard suggests that a form of legitimation based on paralogy should be established. Paralogy is defined as, “ . . . a move (the importance of which is often not recognised until later) played in the pragmatics of knowledge”18. The ethos of the grand narratives has been surpassed. Therefore, it is only fitting that society’s attempts to define knowledge should turn to that which is both inexplicable and contrary to reason. Richard Rorty also traces the development of classical knowledge systems. Rorty argues that society has always had an inherent desire to believe in something considered greater than it. Until the early seventeenth century, God was considered an all-powerful and omnipotent supreme being. This belief in the divinity would be replaced by a quest for the truth, which would itself be supplanted by a belief in the individual spirit. The ethos of the late twentieth century ensures that all earlier systems of belief have been surpassed by an acceptance of chance as the one constant that determines human existence: . . . we try to get to the point where we no longer worship anything, where we treat nothing as a quasi divinity, where we treat everything— our language, our conscience, our community—as a product of time and chance19.

Exponents of Platonic philosophy viewed humanity as a mass collective. The lives of each component being was identical in every detail, as the supreme deity had created each equally. As poets and philosophers, Platonists considered it their mission to detail the intricacies of human consciousness: They would thereby inform us what we really are, what we are compelled to be by powers not ourselves. They would exhibit the stamp which had been impressed on all of us. This impress would not be blind, because it would not be a matter of chance, a mere contingency. It would be necessary, essential, telic, constitutive of what it is to be human20.

As they struggled to make sense of the world in which they lived, these classical thinkers were opposed to a view of an existence entirely devoid of certainty. Their writings are reflective of the time period, and do not anticipate drastic changes, due primarily to innovations in technology, beginning with the Industrial Revolution and culminating in the cyber culture of the twentyfirst century. Zygmunt Bauman reiterates the viewpoint expressed by both Rorty and Lyotard. Bauman argues that late twentieth-century society has moved away

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from an unquestionable faith in certainty, to an awareness and acceptance of the inexplicable: Awareness of contingency—of the contingency of the modern self, of the contingency of modern society—was not what they, their prophets, their apostles, their intended converts and aspiring beneficiaries bargained for21.

Bauman refers to the random and seemingly, indifferent nature of contingency. He states that the postmodernist should have, “awareness of no certain exit from uncertainty; of the escape from contingency being as contingent as the condition from which escape is sought”22. Bauman advocates a belief in self-knowledge, and asserts that contingency remains the one key certainty associated with an ambiguous and inexplicable postmodern worldview: Awareness of contingency does not ‘empower’: its acquisition does not give the owner advantage over the protagonists in the struggle of wills and purposes, or in the game of cunning and luck. It does not lead to, or sustain, domination. As if to make the score even, it does not aid the struggle against domination either. It is, to put it bluntly, indifferent to the current or prospective structures of domination23.

Opposed to the Platonic school of thought, post-Nietzschean philosophers stress the role contingency has played in human experience. They assert that, as humanity possesses free will, all individuals differ, and as such no two experiences will be similar. For Nietzsche, while humanity attempts to understand and escape from the contingencies evident within its daily existence, it is the true poet who embraces occurrences of chance. Those who ignore contingency, opt instead for a belief in a predetermined order in which external forces control individuals. In their writings, these poets merely pay homage to the status quo. As such, their art replicates all that has gone before: To fail as a poet—and thus for Nietzsche, to fail as a human being—is to accept somebody else’s description of oneself, to execute a previously prepared programme, to write, at most, elegant variations on previously written poems24.

In contrast to the doctrine of classical thought with its belief in cause and effect, postmodernism refutes this system, and cites its failure to account for the impact of the forces of chance. As the grand narratives of this

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earlier regime have been eroded away, contingency becomes one of the little narratives to which Lyotard refers. As the contemporary world is devoid of all certainties, the ‘absolute coincidences’ that both Auster and Monod illustrate, can affect any individual, irrespective of time period, location or circumstance. II Auster investigates the impact of the forces of contingency in the majority of his writings. While Auster employs chance as a recurring theme, it is often the case that the coincidental occurrence enhances plot development. Several of Auster’s novels are set in contemporary America, and their protagonists appear versions of the author. Unexpected happenings, such as an inheritance, enable these ostensibly ‘realistic’ characters to relinquish the trappings of their everyday surroundings. Their subsequent lives are influenced by the presence of contingency, and become the extraordinary subject of fictional documentation. In “Postmodernism and Literature,” Barry Lewis argues that chance is a component of literary postmodernism. Lewis states “ . . . postmodernist writers disrupt the smooth production and reception of texts . . . by welcoming chance into the compositional process”25. Contingency is a central concern for Auster, and undergoes its fullest exploration in the autobiographical The Red Notebook and Why Write? as well as the novel The Music of Chance. The Red Notebook represents Auster’s self-conscious musings on the nature of chance and its place within the workings of the world at large, inspired in part by the range of random and ostensibly insignificant happenings affecting his own life. In Auster’s experience these coincidences can cover a variety of incidents, such as thinking about long lost friends and subsequently meeting them, or, “ . . . checking into a hotel and being given a room with the same number as your address at home”26. While the majority of individuals would ignore these highly improbable occurrences, and dismiss them as nothing more than ‘flukes,’ it is the presence of chance elements that ultimately reinforces Auster’s hypothesis. Auster derives his inspiration from both fairy tales and the oral tradition. He focuses solely on fragments of each individual story, and emphasizes those features that contribute to the overall central theme of the work. Auster prefers the title ‘storyteller’ to ‘author’ in the conventional sense. In the production of a postmodern fable, he should emulate the Brothers Grimm and authors of The Thousand and One Tales of Arabian Nights. Auster expresses his intentions:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity These are bare bones narratives, narratives largely devoid of details yet enormous amounts of information are communicated in a very short space, with very few words . . . The text is no more than a springboard for the imagination27.

Each of the chapters in The Red Notebook is presented as historical fact, and Auster insists that these anecdotes are authentic. The deliberate lack of detail, coupled with occasional memory loss and lack of information on the part of the author, however, inevitably leave them open to interpretation. Auster’s ‘factual’ writings have a distinctive place within the canon of postmodern literature. Their subject matter is not only linked to ambiguity and a thorough skepticism of any one universal truth, but also to those lesser-known and less well recognized postmodern values of contingency, chance and the music of happenstance. While I have referred to Auster’s factual writings as autobiographies, it must be stressed that they, like The Invention of Solitude, can be more accurately described as writings in which genres are blurred. This can be seen to reflect Auster’s worldview—in the absence of any one universal truth, ambiguity reigns supreme, and as a consequence, “ . . . in fact as in fiction, in society as in literature, fact and fiction jostle and blend”28. This blurring of genres is a defining element of literary postmodernism. In 1977, Mas’ud Zavarzadeh stated that the postmodern literary universe comprised: . . . a zone of experience where the factual is not secure or unequivocal but seems preternaturally strange and eerie, and where the fictional seems not all that remote and alien, but bears uncanny resemblance to daily experiences29.

Auster asserts that the grand narratives of society have been rendered obsolete. In the absence of any universal certainties, he resorts to the fabular in an attempt to unearth a form of truth. Thus, the anecdote can be treated on a par with all existing and preconceived notions of reality: The rampant, totally mystifying force of contradiction. I understand now that each fact is nullified by the next fact, that each thought engenders an equal and opposite thought . . . Fragments. Or the anecdote as a form of knowledge30.

Auster’s opinions adhere to the tenets of Linda Hutcheon’s conception of literary postmodernism:

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. . . postmodern fiction does not ‘aspire to tell the truth’ as much as to question whose truth gets told. It does not so much associate ‘this truth with claims to empirical validation’ as contest the ground to any claim to such validation31.

As such, these postmodern anecdotes may be dismissed as nothing more than contemporary fables, with Auster continually involved in the process of storification. However, Auster asks whether there are any reasons why a reader should not believe these stories. Those critics who have denigrated his art form are accused of engrossing themselves within the conventions of literature to such an extent that they distance themselves from the practicalities of their own everyday environments. As Auster’s detractors ignore the presence of contingency, they fail to account for the existence of coincidental occurrences. Auster derides the mindset of conventional literary criticism, and states: In some perverse way, I believe they’ve spent too much time reading books. They’re so immersed in the conventions of so-called realistic fiction that their sense of reality has been distorted. Everything’s been smoothed out in these novels, robbed of its singularity, boxed into a predictable world of cause and effect. Anyone with the wit to get his nose out of his book and study what’s actually in front of him will understand that this realism is a complete sham32.

Stuart Sim reiterates Auster’s condemnation of the dominant conventions associated with literary criticism. Sim writes that critics who advocate a belief in cause and effect have failed to comprehend the devices employed in literary postmodernism. These critics favor the tenets of structuralism, and attempt to enforce their prejudices. Postmodern literature fails to adhere to the confines of their structuralist remit. In “Postmodernism and Philosophy,” Sim states: What structuralism seems to allow little scope for is chance, creativity or the unexpected. For a poststructuralist, these are much more important than all the similarities between systems, and there is what amounts to a commitment to finding, and dwelling on, dissimilarity, difference, and the unpredictability of analysis among poststructuralist thinkers33.

Seven of the stories in The Red Notebook are based upon Auster’s own personal experiences—some memorable events and the origins of his first

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novel—while the remaining six deal with the role chance has played in the lives of his friends and acquaintances. While the period of time covered spans approximately forty years, the chapters are presented in a random manner, anecdotes from Auster’s childhood and subsequent adult life, interspersed with tales from World War II and the 1960s. The anecdotes take place in locations as diverse as America, France and Ireland. Auster insists that chance events are not confined to any particular set of circumstances, but predominate on a global level. Throughout the book each character is referred to by the initial of his or her first name, or as friend or relation of a connection of Auster’s. The notable exceptions are those whose names are significant or symbolic and as such are the main focus of the story itself. As he concerns himself with his primary theme, Auster provides details of the lives of these individuals only when absolutely necessary. Their previous or subsequent careers add little to the overall narrative. The construction of the work is also indicative of Auster’s intentions and is divided into thirteen short chapters. Thirteen is a number often synonymous with aleatory play—unlucky thirteen and thirteen the number of playing cards in each suit. The card game is a central and defining element in The Music of Chance. Its outcome results in imprisonment and possibly death for the losers, Jack Pozzi and Jim Nashe. While Nashe is born on the thirteenth day of the month, he will encounter Pozzi during the thirteenth month of his travels. Similarly, thirteen is one of the winning numbers chosen by Flower and Stone. Indeed, Flower methodically states: “ . . . thirteen is a loner, a shady character who won’t think twice about breaking the law to get what he wants”34. The inspiration for Auster’s fiction is evident within each of the stories. His preoccupations stem from this collection of diverse yet ultimately linked narratives. One of these key themes is the moment that will define the subsequent life of an individual, and its origin is explored in the chapter based upon Auster’s childhood and the life of his father. While “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude, represents a study of the life and death of Samuel Auster, Auster returns to this territory in The Red Notebook. Auster emphasizes the impact of contingency upon the life of one individual. During Auster’s formative years, his father experienced several brushes with death—an accidental fall from a building that resulted in him landing on a clothesline rather than the ground, and his car stalling momentarily at a red light an instant before a falling tree crashes to the ground. Auster asserts that recurring chance occurrences can haunt individuals, and variations on his father’s experiences appear in Auster’s fictional works. Reflective of this viewpoint, and with reference to his father’s past, Auster states: “What was very nearly the end of him proved to be no more than a close call, a brief episode in the ongoing story of his life”35.

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Auster’s first recorded personal encounter with the forces of contingency happens at the age of nine or ten. The experience rather than exact dates is the specific focus of his tale with the circumstances of the incident attributed to the fact that, “ . . . a number of unlikely events occurred all at once”36. Auster rescues a young neighbor from impending death—the girl has tripped and fallen under a moving car. He considers the event the sole action which has motivated and shaped him as an individual: For years afterward, I walked around feeling that this had been my finest moment. I had actually saved someone’s life, and in retrospect I was always astonished by how quickly I had acted, by how sure my movements had been at the critical juncture. I saw the rescue in my mind again and again; again and again I relived the sensation of pulling that little girl out from under our car37.

Auster believes the episode has “ . . . been a defining experience, a singular event in my internal history”38. However, he discovers that the facts of this moment have made no impression upon his neighbor, and comes to realize that each individual reacts differently to a situation. That which he considers significant, she has been oblivious to. It is within this context that the protagonists of his fictional works often experience life-changing encounters, which those around them fail to comprehend, ignorant as they are to this period of realization. This viewpoint reinforces Auster’s opinion that connection with society at large is at best problematic, at worst impossible. Auster is obsessed by this early encounter with the powers of contingency, and would cite the forces of chance as inspiration for his first novel City of Glass. Alone in his apartment, Auster answers the telephone to a caller wishing to speak to someone from the Pinkerton Agency. Auster informs the caller that he has dialed a wrong number, and hangs up. He receives a similar call the following day and again gives the same response. Intrigued by the second call, Auster decides that if he receives another, he will play along and answer as if he were someone from the Agency. Although the awaited call never transpires, the original two calls are enough to prompt Auster into conceiving the plot of the novel, with the wrong number, “ . . . transformed into the crucial event of the book, the mistake that sets the whole story in motion”39. Auster completes the novel, which subsequently becomes one third of The New York Trilogy. He discovers however that while he may have put the original idea to rest, the past and occurrences of coincidence come back to haunt him, and “ . . . that books are never finished, that it is possible for stories to go on writing themselves without an author”40. Twelve

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years later and by now living in a different apartment, Auster again receives a telephone call. He answers and hears the voice of a man wishing to speak to Mr. Quinn. Daniel Quinn is the name of the protagonist of City of Glass. At first Auster believes that one of his friends is playing a practical joke, but discovers that the caller actually searches for someone named Quinn. Auster is so unnerved at the improbability of the episode and the continued existence of coincidence, that he has trouble responding: “I suddenly grew scared, and for a moment or two I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth”41. Another episode that Auster attributes to the prevailing nature of chance is that which concerns the envelope he mysteriously receives addressed to Robert M. Morgan, with the original sender’s name, Paul Auster. For some improbable, yet inexplicable reason, the person who posted the letter in the first instance has discovered Auster’s New York address. Perplexed by the appearance of the envelope, and having read its contents, a letter of praise from Paul Auster to Robert M. Morgan concerning Morgan’s thoughts on Auster’s latest novel and signed by the author, Auster is forced to concede that he has been victim of an elaborate hoax—an example of mail art. As there is no actual individual known to him named Robert M. Morgan, Auster comes to the conclusion that the envelope was actually intended for him. This implies that someone has impersonated Auster. This episode of the author’s life will be translated into fiction in Leviathan, as Benjamin Sachs, the ‘Phantom of Liberty,’ impersonates Peter Aaron. Mindful of the role of chance, Auster cannot overlook the improbable fact that the envelope has actually arrived at his address: But that would imply an unwarranted faith in the U.S. Postal Service, and I doubt that someone who would go to the trouble of ordering address labels in my name and then sitting down to write such an arrogant, high-flown letter would leave anything to chance. Or would he? Perhaps the smart alecks of this world believe that everything will always go their way42.

While Auster is initially concerned to receive the envelope, it comes to reinforce his faith in the continued existence of the improbable. Although his instincts suggest that he should destroy the letter, he keeps it as a reminder of the inexplicable, of chance as the one true certainty in life: Perhaps I keep it there as a monument to my own folly. Perhaps it is a way to remind myself that I know nothing, that the world I live in will go on escaping me forever43.

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The opening chapter of The Red Notebook, moreover, concerns Auster and his friend L. living in Sligo in 1972. His friend receives a summons as a result of some serious charge leveled against her. Both the charge and its aftermath are ignored in favor of the central focus of the story, the names of the partners in the law firm, Argue and Phibbs. Is it pure coincidence that men with these surnames are involved in the legal profession? Or, does this represent an elaborate postmodern joke on Auster’s behalf? Auster asserts that he presents a truthful version of events, and throws down the gauntlet to those who would question his authenticity: This is a true story. If there are those who doubt me, I challenge them to visit Sligo and see for themselves if I have made it up or not. I have revelled in these names for the past twenty years, but even though I can prove that Argue and Phibbs were real men, the fact that one name should have been coupled with the other (to form an even more delicious joke, an out-and-out sendup of the legal profession) is something I still find hard to believe44.

Auster states that to the best of his knowledge the law firm is still in existence. However, he declares that his information is several years out of date. Thus he opens himself to the charge of penning nothing more than a contemporary fable. Several of the chapters focus on different countries. Auster maintains that, irrespective of location, chance is one of the key certainties in life. The fact that the background to this incident is a remote village near Sligo reinforces this viewpoint. Auster’s ‘postmodern’ Ireland appears a stark contrast to the portrait presented in his early poem entitled “Ireland.” In “Ireland,” Auster’s thesis on contingency is secondary to his concerns with regard to the rugged landscape. The environment is reminiscent of a primeval wilderness. Auster comments on the vista: Turf spent, moor-abandoned you, you, the more naked one, bathed in the dark of the greenly overrun deep-glen, of the grey bed my ghost pilfered from the mouths of stones45.

This primordial area has become withered and barren. The advance of civilization seems hindered by the immovable elements. The vast and

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impenetrable forces of nature dwarf Auster, and the landscape produces a sensation of oppression, emphasized by his reference to the “ . . . rankly dealt-with air/that still traffics in your shame”46. However, Auster is in awe of this natural world. He wishes to return to this uncaring environment, and simultaneously begs forgiveness. Through the medium of literature, he will attempt to convey the immensity of the visual, and thereby consign it to the realms of the staid written form: give me the right to destroy you on the tongue that impales our harvest, the merciless acres of cold47.

Auster and L. return to New York in the mid 1970s. The couple marry and divorce a year after the birth of their son. The details of Auster’s married life and the birth of his child are overlooked. Auster states: “None of that is relevant now—except to set the scene for an incident that took place in the spring of 1980”48. As in the previous chapters, Auster’s thesis on the role of contingency represents the focus of the story. While the other information of the episode remains sketchy, one key element of that day has embedded itself within his consciousness: “All that remains is the open window and the image of a dime flying through the air”49. The story revolves around L. throwing Auster some change that hits the branch of a tree, lands on the ground and disappears without trace. Later that same day, Auster and a friend attend a baseball game, the opening game of the season, and, as Auster lights a cigarette in an alcove of the stadium, he sees a dime. Auster believes this to be the same coin that had been lost. As Auster supports the powers of contingency, it is only fitting that the coin should appear in the baseball stadium. Baseball is the American national pastime. In “The Poetics of Baseball: An American Domestication of the Mathematically Sublime,” Brian G. Caraher comments on the poetics of the game: Baseball is, after all, a game of chance. One can accept that as a significant description of the manner of the game and as an integral feature of its poetics, or one can set out to tinker with chance and attempt to fix the outcome of the play of skills and chances50.

As a fan of baseball, the sport is a focus of Auster’s fictional works. The ongoing challenges to probability are shown to be a central aspect, and the unexpected World Series victory of the New York Mets in 1969 reflects the

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existence of the unpredictable. For instance, Marco Fogg in Moon Palace says: Causality was no longer the hidden demiurge that ruled the universe: down was up, the last was the first, the end was the beginning. Heraclitus had been resurrected from his dung heap, and what he had to show us was the simplest of truths: reality was a yo-yo; change was the only constant51.

The remaining sections of The Red Notebook investigate the ways in which contingency has impacted upon the lives of a variety of other individuals. Made aware of the tales through second and occasionally third hand information, Auster deliberately distances himself from the mantle of authorial authenticity. Separated by time and distance from the original event, Auster assumes the role of a facilitator. He recounts the tale as it has been delivered to him, and believes that his friends have neither ulterior motive, nor reason to distort the truth. The stories of R. and C., are linked solely through their individual connection to Auster. However, each shares a common central focus. Auster highlights the predominance of contingency in these unconnected lives. R. frantically tries to locate an obscure book, with limited success. The events surrounding his discovery of the object of his search are so improbable that Auster again emphasizes the significance of coincidence. The unexpected occurs at the most unlikely moment. R. randomly takes a short cut through Grand Central Station, and sees a woman holding a copy of the very book he is attempting to track down. Unnerved, yet simultaneously, fascinated by this chance discovery, he impulsively approaches the woman, explains himself and asks how and where she obtained her copy. The woman’s reply: “I came here today to give it to you”52, leaves R. stunned and raises questions about the role chance has played in this encounter. Was contingency involved or is serendipity the key factor? Although R. has accidentally encountered the woman, her response to his question suggests that this was a premeditated decision on her part. She has journeyed to Grand Central Station with the sole intention of meeting R. It may be possible that it was it R.’s destiny to take the short cut, the woman, somehow able to communicate her intentions: “ . . . almost as if the intensity of these thoughts had sent a signal out into the world”53. Auster’s response to this improbable scenario and the woman’s impromptu reaction, is to say that neither he nor any other individual can understand the workings of the world. Therefore, anything is entirely possible. The logic of the meeting is open to interpretation:

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“Chance? Destiny? Or simple mathematics, an example of probability theory at work? Life is full of such events”54. C.’s improbable experience is rather more complex, yet is linked by its ethos—telepathic communication results in reconciliation. A French poet, C. comes from a broken home, his parents divorcing when he was a child. Raised by his mother, throughout his childhood and subsequent adult life C. has been informed that his father abandoned the family. C., by now an adult with a partner and stepchild, visits a friend and comes across the Minitel, a directory of all inhabitants of France. C. locates his absent father’s address, and impulsively decides to establish contact, “ . . . as if some uncanny force had unleashed itself inside him”55. Contingent elements are shown to impact upon C.’s life. His impromptu decision to contact his father occurs not only when his stepchild is three and a half years old, the age C. was when his parents separated, but also on the exact day of his father’s birthday. After a period of time has elapsed, C. makes arrangements to visit his father, but his plans are thwarted by news of the latter’s untimely death. C. journeys to meet his stepmother for the first time. He listens to alternate versions of the same event, and becomes aware of the degree of ambiguity surrounding his existence. C. tells Auster, “I feel as if I’ve become a character in one of your novels”56. C.’s stepmother’s point of view—it was his mother who left the father and forbad him access to his son—causes even more confusion, and as a consequence: C.’s life had now become two lives. There was Version A and Version B, and both of them were his story. He had lived them both in equal measure, two truths that cancelled each other out, and all along, without even knowing it, he had been stranded in the middle57.

This disturbing distortion of reality is prevalent within Auster’s writings. His world comprises one in which there are no universal truths, but there persists the presence of döppelgangers and duality that leads one to acknowledge the certainty of contingency and chance. Auster echoes Edgar Allan Poe’s “William Wilson,” in which the protagonist, Wilson, meets and murders his namesake and döppelganger. Wilson subsequently discovers that he has mortally wounded himself. The theme of duality predominates throughout Auster’s fiction. In City of Glass, Daniel Quinn adopts the pseudonym, William Wilson. Quinn later assumes the identity of detective, Paul Auster, and eventually encounters the author of the same name. Similarly, both Stillmans have the Christian name Peter. At Grand Central Station, Quinn meets both the elder Stillman and his

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döppelganger. The fact that Quinn chooses to follow the first Stillman controls the action of the plot. An alternative decision would lead to an altogether different, and, unwritten story. The distinction between Black and White in Ghosts, is problematic. Through experience, Blue comes to the realization that his mentor is the same man that he has been hired to investigate. Ultimately, it is Blue, rather than Black, who is actually being observed. Auster’s protagonists also readily discard their sense of identity. The unnamed narrator of The Locked Room assumes the identity of his missing friend Fanshawe. He marries Fanshawe’s wife Sophie and adopts his child. In Leviathan, Peter Aaron embarks upon an affair with his friend Benjamin Sachs’s wife. Aaron subsequently borrows the title of Sachs’s unfinished manuscript. Variations of the factual Auster are also evident throughout the novels, with writers named Paul, appearing as fictional characters in City of Glass, Timbuktu, and Smoke, and the novelist, Peter Aaron, in Leviathan, sharing Auster’s initials. Although these are fictional characters, they can be described as Auster’s various döppelgangers, and elements of their lives and experiences are reminiscent of those of the author. Auster is interested in the powers of contingency, and he cites this as a motivational factor that has prompted his subsequent career. Auster returns to this topic, and addresses similar themes and issues in Why Write? This later work, both a sequel and companion piece to The Red Notebook, combines several significant events personal to Auster with the improbable details of the lives of other, disparate individuals. As in The Red Notebook, location and time period are secondary considerations. Their function within each anecdote reinforces Auster’s philosophy—chance is the one key certainty linked to human existence. While the subject matter of each tale could exist within the realms of literature, the stories are again presented as authentic versions of particular events. Whereas The Red Notebook contains several claims to authenticity by Auster, each anecdote within Why Write? is presented as a factual tale. Auster is a firm advocate of contingency as a determining element within his future fictional project. He asserts that it is an unlikely occurrence from his childhood that has been a crucial contributory factor in his decision to become a writer. An obsessive fan of baseball, and in particular the once and former New York Giants, the young Auster attends his first major league game. While the excursion to the game is the catalyst for the main focus of the story, the intricacies of events prior to the defining experience are considered irrelevant. The fact that a sufficient period of time has elapsed enables Auster to state that the majority of events from the night in question have

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been eroded from his memory: “I don’t know who won, I can’t remember a single detail of the game . . .”58 The central theme of the story concerns Auster’s meeting with his childhood hero, Willie Mays, a member of the New York Giants. In awe of this sporting legend, the boy’s first reaction is to ask for an autograph. Although Mays agrees, the young Auster’s aspirations are quashed by the fact that neither he nor his companions have a pencil. Mays nonchalantly replies: “Ain’t got no pencil, can’t give no autograph”59. Subsequently the boy breaks down. The young Auster is annoyed by the fact that he was unprepared for the encounter, but more so at the display of emotion he is unable to prevent. Auster maintains that events of the night will not be repeated, and ensures that he will be prepared for every future eventuality: After that night, I started carrying a pencil with me wherever I went. It became a habit of mine never to leave the house without making sure I had a pencil in my pocket. It’s not that I had any particular plans for that pencil, but I didn’t want to be unprepared. I had been caught empty handed once, and I wasn’t about to let it happen again60.

Auster is equipped with the tool of his trade, and will eventually decide to embark on a literary career. The consequences of this encounter, inspired by the forces of contingency, can be viewed as instrumental in ensuring that the disappointed young baseball fan develops into the postmodern storyteller: “If nothing else, the years have taught me this: if there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using it”61. Despite Auster’s assertions of authenticity, the closing words of Why Write? represent a disclaimer. The unfolding narrative encourages an ambiguous and skeptical reading. Auster states: “As I like to tell my children, that’s how I became a writer”62. This factual incident is relegated to the position of a children’s story. Auster, a consummate storyteller, provides an intriguing, entertaining, yet fabular, response to his children’s questions. Auster returns to familiar territory with True Tales of American Life, published in the United States as I Thought My Father Was God, and Other True Tales from NPR’s National Story Project. In 1999, Auster was asked to become a regular contributor to the National Public Radio Weekend All Things Considered program. Auster insisted that other commitments occupied his time, and suggested the National Story Project. Members of the American public would submit stories. These stories should be no more than twenty minutes in length, and all must depict truthful versions of events. Reflective of his intentions, Auster writes:

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What interested me most . . . were stories that defied our expectations about the world, anecdotes that revealed the mysterious and unknowable forces at work in our lives, in our family histories, in our minds and bodies, in our souls. In other words, true stories that sounded like fiction63.

Auster maintains that he sought to choose the best entrants. His final decision was determined neither by demography nor status. In fact, he insists that the stories included in True Tales of American Life were chosen on a purely random basis: I selected the stories solely on the basis of merit: for their humanity, for their truth, for their charm. The numbers just fell out that way, and the results were determined by blind chance64.

Again, Auster’s hypothesis on contingency is evident. Chance has influenced his decision with regard to the inclusion of each of the stories. Therefore, his status as an all-powerful author or editor is not called into doubt. It may be the case that each anecdote was selected randomly, but it is just as possible that Auster is self-consciously aware of the impact of each story, with the project ultimately determined by his editorial control. The ostensibly outlandish anecdotes in True Tales of American Life are considered truthful. The American public, like Auster’s numerous contacts, have no reason to falsify information. Therefore, Auster considers each contributor a reliable and authentic narrator. The short opening story of True Tales of American Life—“The Chicken” by Linda Elegant—is one example of the type of ‘true’ story in which Auster is interested: As I was walking down Stanton Street early one Sunday morning, I saw a chicken a few yards ahead of me. I was walking faster than the chicken, so I gradually caught up. By the time we approached Eighteenth Avenue, I was close behind. The chicken turned south on Eighteenth. At the fourth house along, it turned in at the walk, hopped up the front steps, and rapped sharply on the metal storm door with its beak. After a moment, the door opened and the chicken went in65.

It is possible to dismiss “The Chicken” as nothing more than a joke, a quirky anecdote reflective of the absurdity of contemporary American life. The story’s incredible, yet humorous, subject matter reinforces Auster’s readership’s continued faith in skepticism and ambiguity as dominant traits evident

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within his fictional, or ‘factual,’ literary project. However, Auster is adamant that “The Chicken,” as well as the other installments included in True Tales of American Life, is entirely truthful. Auster claims to have a partial understanding of the workings of the world. The fact that a collection of diverse individuals empathize with his sense of the world’s strange contingency and serendipitous confusions, only serves to reinforce his existing hypothesis. Auster presents these ‘truthful’ anecdotes for perusal, and states: “I learned that I am not alone in my belief that the more we understand of the world, the more elusive and confounding the world becomes”66. III Auster’s preoccupation with the degree of confusion and ambiguity evident within contemporary life reverberates throughout The Music of Chance. In “The Music of Chance: Aleatorical (Dis)harmonies Within ‘The City of the World,’” Tim Woods, writes that the novel explores Auster’s concerns with: . . . the perennial postmodern anxiety of neurosis and paranoia about the extent to which everything is plotless or totally plotted: whether one lives in a world of hermetic containment in complete meaning, or in a world of undifferentiation and pure randomness67.

During the course of the novel, Jim Nashe discovers that his ontological certainties are inextricably challenged. From the outset, Nashe’s life is influenced by the ‘manifold contingencies’ referred to by Auster’s other protagonists. His marriage breaks down, and Nashe leaves his daughter in the care of his sister. Nashe embarks upon a relentless journey across America. Rather than venture to the correct exit on the freeway, he inadvertently takes a wrong turning. Nashe’s original destination is ignored in favor of the great unknown, and he positively embraces the repercussions of this accidental occurrence. The open road provides a definable sense of purpose to his existence. Nashe returns to the relative normality associated with his former life, and attempts to rationalize his reckless and ostensibly, inexplicable actions. He opts for agency in the guise of factors beyond his control. However, Nashe is forced to dismiss this ‘logical’ explanation, in favor of the truth. His reactions to chance events and their subsequent repercussions serve as a replacement for having to decide upon a definitive and tangible future. Nashe’s decision has been self-consciously motivated by a desire to relinquish responsibility:

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When Nashe finally returned to Boston, he told himself that he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, but that was only because he couldn’t think of anything else to account for what he had done. As he eventually discovered, the truth was far less dramatic. He was simply ashamed of himself for having enjoyed it so much68.

Subsequently, Nashe becomes a beneficiary of his late father’s fortune, with his father’s money accumulated through investment in the uncertain, risk-associated stock market. Chance plays a pivotal role in ensuring that Nashe’s father’s lawyer will establish contact. Since his parents had divorced when Nashe was a child, he had become estranged from his father. Nashe is unable to dismiss the significance of contingency, and initially considers himself powerless to intervene in this estrangement. As chance is the key factor associated with his existence, however, he is unable to forestall the intrusion of the unpredictable: If it had not taken the lawyer six months to find him, he never would have been on the road the day he met Jack Pozzi, and therefore none of the things that followed from that meeting ever would have happened69.

The initial encounter between Nashe and Pozzi is influenced by contingency rather than agency. Prior to their meeting, Nashe becomes romantically involved with the journalist Fiona Wells. The couple accidentally encounter one another in a bookstore. Their union, “ . . . like most of the things that happened to him that year, it came about purely by chance”70. As the relationship with Wells develops, Nashe considers abandoning his travels. However, with the untimely reappearance of Wells’s former partner, Nashe is rejected. Embittered and in need of solace, he returns to the open road. Nashe will eventually chance upon a wounded and disheveled hitchhiker, Pozzi. The logic of this coincidental intersection is described as, “ . . . one of those random, accidental encounters that seem to materialise out of thin air—a twig that breaks off in the wind and suddenly lands at your feet”71. Nashe squanders much of his inheritance. He craves some form of redemption and considers Pozzi’s unexpected intervention, “ . . . as a last chance to do something for himself before it was too late”72. His resources dwindle, and Nashe invests in a forthcoming poker game. The prospect of success is his sole motivation. As Nashe recognizes the significance of chance events, it is only fitting that he should consider the game a source of future extrication. As the outcome cannot be predicted, it is entirely probable that chance will

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again feature in Nashe’s life. Thus, Nashe’s passenger becomes, “ . . . an opportunity in the shape of a human being, a card-playing sceptre whose one purpose in the world was to help Nashe win back his freedom”73. Nashe and Pozzi share similar upbringings. Each is raised by his mother, and their respective fathers remain background figures. Wealth is associated with both fathers. Nashe’s father bequeaths his fortune to his son, while the intermittent appearances of Pozzi senior result in his son receiving substantial sums of money. Nashe is initially suspicious of Pozzi’s motivation, but quickly alters his opinions. A friendship develops between Nashe and his passenger: Once a man begins to recognize himself in another, he can no longer look on that person as a stranger. Like it or not, a bond is formed. Nashe understood the potential trap of such thinking, but at that point there was little he could do to prevent himself from feeling drawn to this lost and emaciated creature. The distance between them had suddenly narrowed74.

During their sojourn in New York City the relationship between both men strengthens. Nashe recognizes a kindred spirit, and realizes that Pozzi’s bravado is a defense mechanism employed to counteract the harsh reality of his existence. Pozzi reminisces about his youthful encounters with his father, and reverts to an almost childlike state. His father is viewed as a legendary hero. The similarities between Nashe and Pozzi are such that upon arrival at the mansion, they describe themselves as brothers. The trappings of his former life are considered irrelevant and Nashe can empathize with Pozzi. Pozzi rejects conformity. He resigns from his position in a department store, and his former employment is described as, “ . . . the pits . . . the absolute worst”75. Conventionality is detrimental to Pozzi’s individuality. He asserts that his future life will have some sense of purpose. Pozzi survives solely on instinct and moves haphazardly from one card game to the next. In awe of Pozzi’s determined stance, Nashe is forced to commend his companion’s refusal to conform: At least he had the courage of his convictions, and that was more than could be said of most people. Pozzi had taken the plunge into himself; he was improvising his life as he went along, trusting in pure wit to keep his head above water76.

Pozzi’s opponents are the eccentric millionaires, Flower and Stone. Upon arrival at the mansion, Nashe’s dominant emotion is uncertainty. Within the mansion, the old and new worlds collide. The millionaires’ maid

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is dressed in a starched uniform, the décor of their home reflects ‘old money,’ yet their doorbell plays the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and the menu consists of hamburgers and potato chips. Nashe imagines the millionaires to resemble Laurel and Hardy. As humorous ‘sportsmen,’ Flower and Stone will participate in the game solely for enjoyment purposes. Nashe finally meets Flower and Stone and the real image fails to comply with his preconceptions: Flower was all agitation and lunging goodwill, but there was something crude about him, Nashe felt, some edge of anxiety that made him appear to be at odds with himself. Stone, on the other hand, was a simpler and gentler sort of person, a man without airs who sat comfortably inside his own skin. But these were only first impressions, Nashe realized77.

Flower relishes the presence of an audience, and entertains his guests with the story of the extraordinary lottery win, shared by Stone and him. Friends for a number of years, Flower and Stone had a common Friday night ritual—they would buy a joint lottery ticket, before attending a poker game. The prospect of success in the lottery fills a void in the humdrum existences of both men. Each dreams of how he would spend his fortune. However, neither considers his daydream a possible reality. Flower, an accountant, is fully aware of the degree of probability associated with gambling. He states: “The odds are always the same, after all, no matter how many times you play. Millions and millions to one, the longest of long shots”78. In order to tamper with the outcome of the lottery, Flower and Stone decide upon a course of action. The men purchase the winning ticket, and carefully opt for: “Prime numbers. It was all so neat and elegant. Numbers that refuse to cooperate, that don’t change or divide, numbers that remain themselves for all eternity”79. Rather than place faith in the existence of randomness and the unpredictable, Flower and Stone attempt to interfere with the chaotic, and enforce some kind of structure. Their actions chance to precipitate a positive outcome, and the men interpret their good fortune as a beneficial omen. During their subsequent careers, they apply this same philosophy to all major dealings. Prior to the card game, Nashe and Pozzi are given a guided tour of their hosts’ private quarters. While the ostentatious Flower amasses various historical artifacts, Stone’s room contains one item—the model City of the World. Nashe’s initial impression is to view the model as the pastime of a bored rich man. Upon closer inspection, he discovers that Stone’s city is a restrictive, bureaucratic and personal Utopia:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity . . . an illustration of one man’s journey through the City of the World. Look at the Hall of Justice, the Library, the Bank, and the Prison . . . the Four Realms of Togetherness, and each one plays a vital role in maintaining the harmony of the city80.

In his depiction of the city, Stone reflects the opinions of himself and Flower. Rather than a haphazard and carefree environment, the city is strictly regimented. This is a world in which individuals must atone for past misdemeanors. Those who fail to comply with the enforced status quo are singled out for harsh justice. Punishment and imprisonment are meted out to the individual who transgresses the established boundaries. Despite Flower’s insistence that the model is merely a source of entertainment, Nashe is horrified to discover a prisoner facing a firing squad. Nashe ponders his situation, and his early assessment of the contemplative and contented Stone. He is forced to alter his opinion drastically: Sweet little Stone . . . whose manner was so humble and benign, turned out to spend his days constructing a model of some bizarre, totalitarian world. Of course it was charming, of course it was daft and brilliant and admirable, but there was a kind of warped, voodoo logic to the thing, as if under all the cuteness and intricacy one was supposed to feel a hint of violence, an atmosphere of cruelty and revenge81.

From the opening shuffle of the cards, Pozzi is in complete control, and the millionaires appear to be out-classed second-rate players. Nashe acts as Pozzi’s good luck charm. While not an active participant in the game, Nashe seems crucial to continued success. Nashe absents himself from the game, and revisits the City of the World. He steals the miniature figures of Flower and Stone, and returns to discover that the tables have been turned. The once confident Pozzi is now the loser. With defeat, Nashe and Pozzi contemplate the fact that their luck has so dramatically altered. Nashe advocates a belief in the unpredictability of play, and asserts that they have been victims of the luck of the draw. Pozzi, on the other hand, is insistent that other factors have been instrumental in ensuring that he and Nashe are prisoners. Pozzi believes that his opponents have cheated, with the logic of their restrictive and calculated regime applied to the card game. Subsequently, he believes that Nashe upsets the degree of probability: We had everything in harmony. We’d come to the point where everything was turning into music for us, and then you have to go upstairs

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and smash all the instruments. You tampered with the universe, my friend, and once a man does that, he’s got to pay the price82.

For Nashe, Pozzi’s accusation is reflective of the impact of incarceration. Nashe dismisses the opinion of his friend, and informs Pozzi that he cannot apportion blame. As Pozzi was the card player, culpability rests solely with him. Therefore, external factors must be discounted: You want to believe in some hidden purpose. You’re trying to persuade yourself there’s a reason for what happens in the world. I don’t care what you call it—God or luck or harmony—it all comes down to the same bullshit. It’s a way of avoiding facts, of refusing to look at how things really work83.

Flower and Stone holidayed in Ireland and have purchased a ruined castle from a downtrodden aristocrat, Lord Patrick Muldoon. The men’s intention is to dismantle the castle and transport each stone to Pennsylvania. Thus they emulate the relocation of London Bridge to Arizona. Rather than rebuild the castle, they wish to create a new structure, a wall in the middle of their meadow. Despite Flower’s penchant for the past, the wall becomes a testament to the aspirations of new money. With the creation of the wall, Flower and Stone reinforce the fact that power is a prerequisite of wealth. The new millionaires will leave a tangible object to prosperity. Muldoon, perhaps emblematic of the Old World and ‘old money’ has fallen on hard times and surrenders his old stones. Nashe initially views the wall as yet another harmless and futile scheme pertinent to those with excess wealth. However, the wall reinforces Flower and Stone’s insistence on the creation of new structure from existing chaos: . . . the stones did not form a mountain so much as a series of mountains—a dozen haphazard piles jutting up from the ground at different angles and elevations, a chaos of towering rubble strewn about like a set of children’s blocks84.

Flower and Stone attempt to suppress and regiment the lives of Nashe and Pozzi. The rhetoric of the millionaires’ warped logic dictates that their opponents have committed a crime by accumulating a gaming debt that they are unable to pay. Therefore, they must face the consequences. Incarceration and hard labor become the perfect vehicles associated with the exorcism of Nashe and Pozzi’s demons:

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Despite Pozzi’s protestations, Nashe is forced to agree with the millionaires. This period of isolation and incarceration again enable him to relinquish responsibility. The construction of the wall offers the prospect of salvation and spiritual rebirth. With the passing of time, Nashe’s stance becomes increasingly untenable. His ontological certainties are called into doubt. Nashe initially views the period of incarceration as a form of spiritual renewal. He is later forced to question the motives of his ‘employers.’ A scuffle develops between Pozzi and the foreman Calvin Murks, and the foreman begins to carry a loaded revolver. It is when Nashe observes Murks that he finally accepts the reality of his predicament: Freedom, therefore had never been an issue. Contracts, handshakes, goodwill—none of that had meant a thing. All along, Nashe and Pozzi had been working under the threat of violence86.

In contrast to Nashe’s latter-day sense of awareness, Pozzi has understood the logic of the situation from the start. Pozzi senses oppression and possible violence, and reassures himself with the knowledge that he has accurately predicted events. As opposed to paranoid delusions, he is actually sensitive to the intentions of Flower and Stone: Pozzi had been expecting trouble all along, and when he saw the gun that morning, it did not surprise him so much as confirm his deepest suspicions. Nashe was the one who was surprised, Nashe was the one who had tricked himself into a false reading of the facts, but Pozzi had always known what they were up against87.

This revelation for Nashe follows on from his discussion with Pozzi in relation to the factors at play in the card game. It subsequently reinforces the degree of ambiguity with which he views his existence. As Pozzi is aware of the practicalities of their situation, it is possible that his far-fetched musings on the game may have a foundation in reality. Tim Woods refers to the curious lack of uncertainty evident within The Music of Chance. Woods states that Nashe:

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. . . is constantly pondering whether he either is or is not in control of things any longer; and his conclusions frequently turn out to be merely illusions on his part, since things clearly slip from his grasp only too easily88.

Events spiral out of control and culminate in the brutal assault on the escaping Pozzi. Nashe’s preconceptions become irrevocably altered. Murks informs Nashe that Pozzi has been hospitalized. However, Nashe’s increased skepticism ensures that he comes to accept that his friend has been murdered. Pozzi’s body is, “ . . . an indistinguishable heap, a bundle of blood-spattered clothing”89, buried in the woods. As Pozzi’s body is dumped within the grounds of the mansion, it becomes obvious that someone connected to Flower and Stone has been the perpetrator. Nashe suspects both Murks and his son-in-law, Floyd, and his suspicions are confirmed with the appearance of Floyd’s son. Nashe is introduced to the boy, and immediately recognizes the child who had waved to Pozzi and him on the night of the attempted escape. Nashe is aware of the continued threat of violence and he becomes increasingly isolated: He was more cut off from the world now than ever before, and there were times when he could feel something collapsing inside him, as if the ground he stood on were gradually giving way, crumbling under the pressure of his loneliness90.

With the disappearance of Pozzi, Nashe becomes engulfed within his position of passive observer. Nashe initially believes that he is a free agent, and asserts that he is in control. Nashe embraces the manifold contingencies prevalent within his life, and he moves from restless driver to incarcerated laborer. Therefore, events have followed a logical development. Nashe’s passivity is symptomatic of his acceptance of chance. He has voluntarily squandered his inheritance, invested in Pozzi and accepted the punishment meted out by Flower and Stone. If imprisonment is the end product of Nashe’s reactions to contingent occurrences, then he cannot apportion blame to external forces. Enforced isolation and restriction, however, prompt Nashe to explore whether or not chance has impacted upon his life. It may be the case that Nashe has been unable to combat future incarceration. This stage of his life has been controlled by the fact that Flower and Stone have cheated, and Nashe’s individuality is suppressed by the clever machinations of the millionaires. Thus, agency is the factor at play. The degree of ambiguity associated with Nashe’s existence is reinforced by his inability to reach a definitive conclusion

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in relation to the outcome of the game. If luck is the factor, then he must concede that he and Pozzi have been victims of chance. If Flower and Stone have cheated, then contingency must be excluded. Laplace’s deterministic hypothesis, in which chance is excluded, suggests that the fates of Nashe and Pozzi are predetermined. They will encounter one another, partake in the card game, become prisoners, and, fulfill their destinies as they die at the hands of their captors. Nashe attempts to locate a form of redemption associated with the presence of contingency. Ultimately, this proves irrelevant. Nashe and Pozzi are powerless to prevent the inevitable, and their destinies adhere to the logic of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nashe refuses to accept the fact that the millionaires have tampered with the odds of probability. If this is the case, then contingency can be discounted as a determining element linked to human existence. The individual is able to mould the unpredictable to suit his or her whims. Therefore, the level of uncertainty associated with contemporary life is reduced, and the forces of contingency are neutralized. It is also possible that the choice of prime numbers has been instrumental in ensuring success. To combat and nullify the intrusion of chance elements, the millionaires resort to numbers that cannot be interfered with. In pursuit of their goal, Flower and Stone, can be compared to Flower’s description of the number thirteen: they have interfered with the laws of contingency, and consequently, achieved success. Prior to his meeting with Pozzi, Nashe ponders the direction of his life. His solitary travels are indicative of his sense of self-determination. He positively embraces the opportunity that has been presented, and the inheritance from his father enables him to embark upon an existential quest of discovery: It was a dizzying prospect—to imagine all that freedom, to understand how little it mattered what choice he made. He could go anywhere he wanted, he could do anything he felt like doing, and not a single person in the world would care. As long as he did not turn back, he could just as well have been invisible91.

As his travels continue, Nashe begins to experience an intense degree of restriction. Although Nashe is free from the constraints imposed by society, he comes to believe that his relentless movement is actually symptomatic of his lack of power. As the car becomes synonymous with a cage, the emancipated traveler is as oppressed as the society from which he is distanced. Nashe has been consumed by a craving for speed and anonymity. He is unable to remain stationary, and seems controlled by his overwhelming desire to be continually on the move. Auster refers to Nashe’s aimless wandering, and states:

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. . . in some sense, he’s a prisoner. He’s imprisoned in his own desire for what he construes to be a notion of freedom. But freedom isn’t possible for him until he stops and plants himself somewhere and takes on responsibility for something, for some other person92.

It is reflective of Nashe’s anxiety with regard to his status as a freethinking individual that incarceration releases him from his chaotic and directionless existence. Nashe cites the beneficial aspects of suppression and imprisonment. He asserts that the enforced period of isolation: . . . would give him a chance to take stock, to sit still for the first time in over a year and ponder his next move. It was almost a relief to have the decision taken out of his hands, to know that he had finally stopped running. The wall would not be a punishment so much as a cure, a one-way journey back to earth93.

It is through confinement that Nashe finally begins to recognize his sense of self-worth. As this restrictive regime results in liberation and self-knowledge, Nashe’s decision at the close of the novel, becomes the ultimate act of subversion and self-empowerment: Whether Nashe lives or dies is almost unimportant. The important thing is that he has triumphed. By the end of the book, he has transcended everything he had been—he’s become, I think, a great figure—a truly powerful human being who understands himself and what he’s capable of (which was not the case in the beginning), and what this means is that he’s willing to take the world as it comes to him. If death is what’s coming, he’s willing to face that, too. He’s not afraid anymore, he’s not afraid of anything. So whether the car crashes or whether he manages to elude the on-coming headlight, whether he dies or whether he lives is much less important than the inner victory he’s won at that moment94.

Nashe journeys to New York City in preparation for the poker game. His reading material is Rousseau’s Confessions. One passage relates directly to Nashe’s preoccupation with the debate between contingency and agency. Rousseau explores whether or not an individual can control his or her own destiny, and self-consciously emphasizes his own human frailty. Rousseau stands in a forest, and attempts to hit a tree with a stone: “If I hit that tree with this stone, Rousseau says to himself, then all will go well with my life from now on”95. After three unsuccessful attempts, Rousseau’s stone finally connects with the

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tree. However, his close proximity ensures that agency rather than contingency has been the factor involved. Rousseau deliberately sets out to achieve victory, and dismisses the unreliability of outside forces: . . . he walks right up to the tree this time, positioning himself directly in front of the target. He is no more than a foot away from it by now, close enough to touch it with his hand. Then he lobs the stone squarely against the trunk. Success, he says to himself, I’ve done it. From this moment on, life will be better for me than ever before96.

Nashe is amused by the detail of Rousseau’s anecdote, but is simultaneously perturbed. He reflects on this forthright declaration, and ponders the fact that Rousseau had actually “ . . . found the courage to reveal such a thing about himself, to admit to such naked self-deception”97. As the novel progresses, Nashe metaphorically emulates Rousseau’s example. With the advent of each contingent occurrence—the appearance of Pozzi, the card game, imprisonment—future salvation is a possibility. Nashe serves his sentence and in the process undergoes a spiritual rebirth. This restrictive regime leads to realization and self-knowledge. Nashe’s existence is determined by the past, and he accepts that he must face the future. All that has gone before is reduced to the level of memory: I’m back to zero, he finally said to himself. And all of a sudden he knew that an entire period of his life had just ended. It wasn’t just the wall and the meadow, it was everything that had put him there in the first place, the whole crazy saga of the past two years . . . He was back to zero again, and now these things were gone. For even the smallest zero was a great hole of nothingness, a circle large enough to contain the world98.

In his desire for revenge against Flower and Stone, Nashe immerses himself in his work. He becomes self-aware, and refuses to let down his guard. The prospect of success promises an end product of self-knowledge: Eventually, he was going to learn the truth. He knew that now, and the certainty of that knowledge comforted him, kept him going from one day to the next. ‘Things happen in their own sweet time,’ he told himself. Before you could learn the truth, you had to learn patience99.

Chance again impacts upon Nashe’s life prior to the close of the novel. Murks and Floyd invite Nashe for a celebratory drink, and Nashe defeats his

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opponents at a game of pool. Rather than collect his winnings, Nashe asks to drive during the return journey. Nashe believed that he was taking control of his life. It is with hindsight and through self-awareness though that he can finally begin to adhere to the courage of his convictions: He felt like a man who had finally found the courage to put a bullet through his head—but in this case the bullet was not death, it was life, it was the explosion that triggers the birth of new worlds100.

Nashe regains control and achieves sought after redemption. As Nashe can no longer rely on contingency, he is forced to seize the moment and take matters into his own hands. Rousseau’s ‘target’ becomes synonymous with the beacon of light to which Nashe voluntarily surrenders: It seemed to come out of nowhere, a cyclops star hurtling straight for his eyes, and in the sudden panic that engulfed him, his only thought was that this was the last thought he would ever have. There was no time to stop, no time to prevent what was going to happen, and so instead of slamming his foot on the brakes, he pressed down even harder on the gas . . . And then the light was upon him, and Nashe shut his eyes, unable to look at it anymore101.

By the close of the novel, Nashe is fully aware of himself, the practicalities of his environment, and the factors which motivate his existence. He finally resumes control, and counteracts the carefully constructed logic of Flower and Stone’s repressive regime. Nashe accepts the ambiguous nature of human existence, and realizes that the inexplicable and absurd cannot be rationalized. Nashe is a product of his experiences and can draw one definitive conclusion by the end of his journey: If Nashe learns anything as a result of his experiences with Pozzi, it is that there are no epistemological certainties; and furthermore, that perhaps in an existentialist mode, the only ontological certainty is death102.

CONCLUSION Although Auster is skeptical with regard to the nature of contemporary life, he realizes that each individual cannot prevent the impact of contingency. In spite of the author’s degree of awareness, chance will inevitably intrude into

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human existence, and Auster’s life would appear continually determined by these random occurrences. This being the case, contemporary society remains shaped by a variety of ‘manifold contingencies.’ As the effects of the indifferent nature of contingency determine human consciousness, Auster concerns himself with the ways in which diverse individuals react. While the forces of chance are uncaring, the individual, or protagonist of the novel, should regard the contingent occurrence as a means of personal salvation. Rather than surrender, with life tarnished and considered irrelevant, the individual should strive to benefit from his or her experiences. In spite of the hardships endured—isolation, incarceration, and occasionally, death—the individual must embrace the contingent occurrence. He or she can thus become selfaware and guarantee victory. The forces of chance are synonymous with a learning curve and the individual will triumph once the existence of randomness is embraced. However, this latter-day, indeed ‘postmodern,’ degree of awareness provides an overwhelming contrast to all that has gone before, that is, to various pre-postmodern ways to construct and regulate the activities of the cities of the world.

Chapter Three

“Every Man is the Author of his Own Life”: Postmodern Life-Writing and the Duplicity of Self-Invention

In the opening chapter of this book, I investigated the concept of definitive truth in relation to Paul Auster’s autobiographical writings. Auster’s reader attempts to differentiate between the factual incident and the fictive nature of storytelling. Invariably, Auster blurs elements of fact and fiction, and encourages skepticism and ambiguity. Although Auster insists that he includes autobiographical detail merely as a device to enhance plot development, the proliferation of evident ‘Paul Auster’ prototypes suggests that the novels are much more than conventional works of fiction. Within this chapter, I will develop my hypothesis with regard to the autobiographical aspect of Auster’s writings, with specific reference to the novel Moon Palace and the memoir The Invention of Solitude. Although each work adheres to the conventions of a particular genre, I will contest that both can be labeled autobiographical writings. In Auster’s autobiography The Invention of Solitude, Auster documents his problematic relationship with his father and contemplates his role as a writer, as a father, and as a son. Moon Palace chronicles the youthful, often outlandish adventures of narrator-protagonist, Marco Stanley Fogg. As Fogg writes from a first person narrative perspective, Moon Palace is his autobiography. Fogg’s fictional narrative is interspersed with the factual detail from Auster’s life. Therefore, Moon Palace becomes both Fogg’s autobiography, as well as a version of the Auster story. As Auster is involved in the process of life-writing, this fictional narrative adheres to the tenets of postmodern autobiography. Auster refers to his body of writing to date, and states: “If all these books were put together in one volume, they would form the book of my life so far, a multi-faceted picture of who I am”1. As Auster writes from a personal or autobiographical perspective, his writings fall within the remit of the sentiment expressed in Moon Palace by Fogg’s existential uncle, Victor Fogg: “Every man is the author of his own life”2. 67

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I Moon Palace was published in 1989 and represented a new direction for Auster. The uncertainty and lack of centre evident within his previous works are abandoned in favour of a carefully constructed narrative. Auster composes a contemporary Bildungsroman, with Fogg’s epic quest of discovery enacted against the backdrop of the United States in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Auster highlights the differences between Moon Palace and his earlier writings: It’s the longest book I’ve ever written and probably the one most rooted in a specific time and place. The action begins in 1969 and doesn’t get much beyond 1971. At bottom, I suppose, it’s a story about families and generation, a kind of David Copperfield novel, and it’s something that I’ve been wanting to write for a long time3.

Throughout his writings, Auster maintains that levels of intimacy are transitory and unsustainable. Moon Palace reiterates these concerns. The isolated Fogg is the sole survivor of his lineage, and the life of his unborn child is terminated during the earliest stages of pregnancy. However, from the outset, the older and more assured Fogg self-depreciatingly critiques his earlier stance: At the same time, remember, he’s telling the story of his youth from the distance of middle age, and he often pokes fun at himself. He’s looking back on the way he used to think, the way he used to interpret the world. It’s one of the many follies of his adolescence, a symptom of the madness of those times4.

Although a series of disasters befall Fogg, his narrative voice ensures that Moon Palace can be labeled tragicomic. Auster emulates the conventions of the Spanish Picaresque tradition, and in particular, Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote. As opposed to a bleak and depressing work, Moon Palace is a genuinely humorous novel, and Fogg revels in the many absurd details of his narrative. Although Moon Palace is Fogg’s autobiography, he is relegated to the position of an observer during the second section of the novel. The voice of his grandfather, Thomas Effing takes precedence. Fogg accepts Effing’s far-fetched account at face value, and assumes that his grandfather is a reliable narrator. Fogg asserts that he has no justification for unwarranted skepticism: My own story was just as preposterous as Effing’s, but I knew that if I ever chose to tell it to him, he would have believed every word I said5.

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Effing presents an authentic retelling of his life story, and comments upon a number of factual individuals, including the painter, Ralph Albert Blakelock, and the inventors, Nikola Tesla and Thomas A. Edison. Effing’s largely unflattering descriptions of these individuals are his opinions, rather than those of either his grandson, or indeed of the author, Paul Auster. In A Poetics of Postmodernism, Linda Hutcheon asserts that the postmodern historical narrative is no longer assumed to be historical fact. Factual individuals are incorporated within a work of fiction in order to formulate and reinforce an author’s existing hypothesis: Postmodern fiction suggests that to re-write or re-present the past in fiction and in history is, in both cases, to open it up to the present, to prevent it from being conclusive and teleological6.

Effing bemoans the fate of the much-maligned Blakelock. In “Inside Moon Palace,” Steven Weisenburger refers to Blakelock’s almost total exclusion from the American canon, and labels Blakelock as, “ . . . the lunatic offspring of American art, omitted from most available histories and scarcely ever recalled in authorised genealogies of aesthetic influence”7. Similarly, Effing asserts that Blakelock has been ignored in the annals of American history. As Fogg is ignorant of Blakelock’s existence, his grandfather instructs him to visit the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Effing insists that Fogg devote his attention to one particular painting, Blakelock’s ‘Moonlight,’ and Fogg is asked to provide his blind employer with a detailed and descriptive critique. Paul Auster himself conducts a study of Blakelock’s “‘Moonlight’ in the Brooklyn Museum,” published in the September 1987 issue of Art News. As Weisenburger observes, there are numerous similarities between Auster’s treatise and Fogg’s analysis. Effing authenticates his autobiographical tale and asserts that he once met Tesla. Therefore his narrative exists within the realms of historical fact. While the presence of factual events and individuals establishes Effing’s credibility, Georg Lukacs, in The Historical Novel, suggests that historical detail evident within works of literature signifies, “ . . . a means of achieving historical faithfulness, for making concretely clear the historical necessity of a concrete situation”8. Effing castigates Edison’s success, and mentions his largely forgotten competitor, Tesla. Edison, however, is universally recognized as the inventor of the light bulb. In “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster states that his father, Samuel, “ . . . was hired as an assistant in Thomas Edison’s laboratory (only to have the job taken away from him the next day because Edison learned he was

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a Jew)”9. Auster’s autobiographical detail is again evident. Yet is it possible to ignore his authorial intention? Rather than express his viewpoint, Auster surrenders the mantle of authority. Effing informs Fogg of his beliefs, and the non-committal and uncertain Auster is removed from culpability. Moon Palace has two distinct narrative voices—Fogg and Effing—and as Auster inhabits the consciousness of both Fogg and Effing, third and fourth narrative perspectives are added. In “The Context of the Concept,” Charles Russell asserts that this blurring of fact and fiction is a defining element of postmodern literature. Russell equates literary postmodernism with “an art of shifting perspective, of double self-consciousness, of local and extended meaning”10. Hutcheon investigates challenges to traditional notions of narrative evident within postmodern fiction: Another consequence of this far-reaching postmodern inquiry into the very nature of subjectivity is the frequent challenge to traditional notions of perspective, especially in narrative and painting. The perceiving subject is no longer assumed to be a coherent, meaning-generating entity. Narrators in fiction become either disconcertingly multiple and hard to locate or seemingly provisional and limited—often undermining their own seeming omniscience11.

Auster encounters difficulties while writing from a first-person narrative perspective in “The Book of Memory,” the second book of The Invention of Solitude. As he struggles to overcome writer’s block, Auster’s thoughts are communicated through his fictive döppelganger, A. Auster states: “It’s the mirror of self-consciousness, a way of watching yourself think”12. A. focuses upon the range of internal and external forces that shape his psyche. His factual experiences, as well as literary and historical influences, form the basis for his fictional works. Like Fogg, A. struggles to attach some semblance of order. As existence is not preordained and life is arbitrary, A. states that ultimately an acceptance of contingency may provide answers to age-old questions. In his desire for clarity, A. resorts to the fantastical in an attempt to escape the drudgery of his reality. A. applies the logic of the imaginary to the real world, yet is simultaneously aware that these thoughts are momentary and fleeting: Like everyone else, he craves a meaning. Like everyone else, his life is so fragmented that each time he sees a connection between two fragments he is tempted to look for a meaning in that connection. The connection exists. But to give it meaning, to look beyond the bare fact of its

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existence, would be to build an imaginary world inside the real world, and he knows it would not stand13.

A. accepts that the conventions that affect his environment differ greatly from those pertinent to the fictive or the imaginary. A. must adhere to these enforced guidelines. Words may be reduced to their bare essentials, and any connections derived, are multiple and often, quite specific: There is the world, and the thing one encounters in the world, and to speak of them is to be in the world. A key breaks off in a lock, and something has happened. That is to say, a key has broken off in a lock. The same piano seems to exist in two different places. A young man, twenty years later, winds up living in the same room where his father faced the horror of solitude. A man encounters his old love on a street in a foreign city. It means only what it is. Nothing more, nothing less14.

Auster states that it is through the solitary act of composition that he clarifies his contradictory and contrasting opinions: “ . . . it was an attempt to turn myself inside out and examine what I was made of ”15. Auster maintains that the concept of solitude is usually deemed negative. However, his use of the term indicates a literal interpretation. As opposed to loneliness, solitary being relates aptly to human existence. Each individual is ultimately alone: It’s simply a fact, one of the conditions of being human, and even if we’re surrounded by others, we essentially live our lives alone: real life takes place inside us16.

Auster’s worldview is essentially negative, with his protagonists involved in a daily struggle for survival enacted against the backdrop of the chaotic and often inexplicable society that they inhabit. Auster states that the individual can strive to control his or her destiny. However, even randomness occasionally impacts upon life. Auster becomes a father to his son, Daniel. Through his literary döppelganger, A., Auster comments upon a world in which violence is predominant and indiscriminate: The thought of a child’s suffering, therefore, is monstrous to him. It is even more monstrous than the monstrosity of the world itself. For it robs the world of its one consolation, and in that a world can be imagined without consolation, it is monstrous17.

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In his writings, Auster illustrates his overwhelming despair at the futility of contemporary existence. As such, his protagonists attempt to locate some degree of balance and structure. While Auster’s critique of the modern world is bleak, his opinions represent a radical contrast to the viewpoint that Fogg initially formulates. Fogg’s early nihilistic tendencies are indicative of his overwhelming pessimism. His skepticism ensures that he systematically comes to reject all existing values. By the close of Moon Palace, Fogg embraces the logic of his uncle’s existentialist doctrine. Existentialism places emphasis upon personal experience and responsibility and the corresponding demands upon the life of the individual, a free agent who inhabits a deterministic and ostensibly meaningless universe. However, Auster’s existential philosophy, comparable to the sentiment expressed by Victor Fogg, echoes the viewpoint formulated by Jean Paul Sartre. Thus, Auster specializes in a doctrine of fortitude and hope. Reflective of this, the fictive A. ponders his place within the world, and celebrates the essence of his existence. As A. embarks upon each new day, he contemplates the numerous and unlimited possibilities open to him: . . . he is flooded with a happiness so intense, a happiness so naturally and harmoniously at one with the world, that he can feel himself alive in the present, a present that surrounds him and permeates him, that breaks through him with the sudden, overwhelming knowledge that he is alive. And the happiness that he discovers in himself at that moment is extraordinary. And whether or not it is extraordinary, he finds this happiness extraordinary18.

Widespread connection is an impossibility, however, and comparable to Fogg, A. reverts inwards. His interaction with his peers contributes to his sense of self, and memory enables him to revisit past associations. Auster writes from a spiritual perspective, and maintains that ultimately life must have meaning. Auster intimates that self-knowledge is of primary importance, and solitude can be viewed as a political construct. The isolated individual, whether this is the factual Auster, or his fictional alter ego, undertakes an inward quest. The end result of such an inward, solitary quest is spiritual awareness and self-knowledge. In his writings, Auster intimates that individuals are permitted to vanish without trace. Disappearance seems related to an inexorable schism pertinent to the times. Fogg comments upon his period of voluntary incarceration within the confines of Central Park, and laments the fact that he has been abandoned. As he fails to seek assistance, Fogg’s metaphysical disappearance

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occurs in tandem with his expulsion from the collective. Life continues as before and Fogg’s arduous quest is largely ignored. Auster focuses upon Fogg’s plight, and critiques American government policy. Contemporary America is revealed to be both blinkered and intolerable. Individuality is equated with the halcyon past, yet Auster’s America has been largely consumed by the impersonal logic of materialism. As such, in pursuit of his existential quest, Fogg is overlooked. His motivation yields the antithesis of entrenched and inflexible value systems. The representatives of corporate and bureaucratic America ostracize Fogg, and he struggles to achieve some semblance of equilibrium. Thus, Moon Palace can be read as social commentary as well as a political treatise on Auster’s behalf: There are three stories in the book, after all, and each one is finally the same. Each generation repeats the mistakes of the previous generation. So it’s also a critique of the notion of progress. And if America is the land of progress, what are we to make of ourselves then?19

Fogg’s exile from society emulates the stance of his grandfather, Thomas Effing. Fogg harks back to an earlier era, and sets up home in the wilderness. Fogg’s actions ensure that he becomes a literal disciple of Henry David Thoreau. Thoreau had ventured into the woods in the production of Walden. Fogg is a forerunner of Benjamin Sachs, protagonist of Leviathan, and Thoreau is a clear role model for Sachs. Indeed, Fogg’s condemnatory thesis echoes the sentiment expressed by Thoreau in Civil Disobedience. Fogg is considered an embarrassing blight upon the supposedly unified and all encompassing national consciousness: In my less exultant moods, I tended to look at myself from a political perspective, hoping to justify my condition by treating it as a challenge to the American way. I was an instrument of sabotage, I told myself, a loose part in the national machine, a misfit whose job was to gum up the works. No one could look at me without feeling shame or anger or pity. I was living proof that the system had failed, that the smug, overfed land of plenty was finally cracking apart20.

Fogg establishes a discernible sense of time and location with his opening reference to the July 1969 Moon landing. Fogg watches the televised event, and reflects that humanity has entered a new era in which the concepts of space travel and other worlds have become tangible realities: “ . . . there was one thing no one could challenge: since the day he was expelled from

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Paradise, Adam had never been this far from home”21. The Moon landing symbolizes the end of the decade, but the Vietnam War is a gaping wound embedded upon the contemporary American national consciousness. In Out of the Sixties: Storytelling and the Vietnam Generation, David Wyatt focuses upon a variety of narratives that have emerged from this traumatic period in American history. Wyatt cites a range of themes evident within literary works related to this era, and insists that the war affects all Americans, not merely those who see active service. The Vietnam conflict results in America’s greatest military defeat. Wyatt asserts that the war alters the consciousness of a specific generation: If Vietnam is the wound, the looming mistake and defeat of this halfcentury, it is also a great and terrible resource—not just a reminder of our pride and our fallenness, but the defining thing, our war, our story22.

Moreover, the motivation of Lyndon B. Johnson’s government is called into question. Some sections of society insisted that this initially misguided conflict had acquired labyrinthine proportions. The indiscriminate system of conscription, coupled with an increasing number of American casualties, forced many individuals to articulate their stance on the war. Some argued in favor of the government. However, dissenting voices directly affected and threatened with the reality of war were vitriolic in urging for an immediate troop withdrawal. Wyatt suggests that as opposition to the war symbolizes power, liberation, and a communal coming-of-age, a generation of young Americans receive a political baptism of fire: The response to Vietnam—whether to go to war, fight against it, or stay on the sidelines—this became the ground for a generation’s sense of political choice as ineluctable23.

Auster views the impact of the Vietnam conflict, both locally and globally, as a defining moment in his internal history. Auster received number 297 in the draft lottery of autumn 1969. In the autobiographical Hand to Mouth, Auster asserts that as chance has played a part in the fact that he received this particular number, his subsequent actions were determined primarily by the random logic of contingency: A blind draw of the cards saved my skin, and the nightmare I had been girding myself against for several years suddenly evaporated. Who to

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thank for that unexpected mercy? I had been spared immense amounts of pain and trouble, had literally been given back control of my life, and the sense of relief was incalculable24.

In his fictional writings, Auster contemplates the plight of the less fortunate. Many of his contemporaries were subjected to the harsh realities of armed conflict and incarceration. The written word is often a vehicle for social commentary, and as Auster berates his bureaucratic homeland, Moon Palace is a political novel. Fogg reflects upon his attitude towards the war, and claims that the Vietnam conflict dominates the collective mindset: After years of fighting, the war had become so large that even the smallest thoughts were now contaminated by it, and I knew that no matter what I did or didn’t do, I was as much a part of it as anyone else25.

Fogg comes to accept the validity of this statement whenever he is summoned to appear before the US Army Draft Board. Fogg resolutely objects to enforced military service, and states: “I had always known that I would never join the army, but once I reached that conclusion, I had not given the subject much thought”26. Although there are means of escape, either through exile or as a conscientious objector, Fogg opts out. Action is the antithesis of his mission statement. Obsessed with the logic of his nihilistic quest, and immersed in the daily struggle for survival, Fogg considers the Vietnam conflict distant and largely irrelevant. However, conscription appears a threatening possibility. Fogg is in the process of recovery after his period of isolation and neglect, and is transferred to the army psychiatrist. During the course of his medical examination, Fogg painstakingly details his existential doctrine: Two years ago, for reasons both personal and philosophical, I decided to give up the struggle. It wasn’t because I wanted to kill myself—you mustn’t think that—but because I thought that by abandoning myself to the chaos of the world, the world might ultimately reveal some secret harmony to me, some form or pattern that would help me to penetrate myself. The point was to accept things as they were, to drift along with the flow of the universe. I’m not saying that I managed to do this very well. I failed miserably, in fact. But failure doesn’t vitiate the sincerity of the attempt. If I came close to dying, I nevertheless believe that I’m a better person for it27.

The psychiatrist assumes that Fogg is either deranged or suicidal. The army requires conformity and respect for a higher power, and Fogg indicates that

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he is not a team player. The psychiatrist is unwilling and unable to accept the logic of Fogg’s meticulous treatise. Considered a reactionary subversive, Fogg is unceremoniously deposited with his fellow dispossessed: “I found myself sitting in a room with the other misfits and rejects . . . These were the simpletons, the grotesques, the young men who did not belong anywhere”28. In Moon Palace Fogg recalls his formative years, and reverts to nostalgia in his depiction of the halcyon past. He asserts that a range of external factors directly influence his personal history. The ethos of the late 1960s and early 1970s determines the plot of the novel. As such Fogg’s tale must be placed in context. The predominance of actual events ostensibly contributes to the degree of authenticity associated with Fogg’s story. Fogg provides his analysis of the late 1960s, and reflects upon the revolutionary zeal pertinent to the era. He is adamant that his rites-of-passage tale relates to a specific period in American history: Everyone is familiar with the story of that time, and there would be no point in going over it again. That does not mean I want it to be forgotten, however. My own story stands in the rubble of those days, and unless this fact is understood, none of it will make sense29.

In “Inside Moon Palace,” Weisenburger comments upon historical representations in the novel. Weisenburger asserts that Auster strives to reinforce his authenticity. As Fogg critiques, rather than participates in these tumultuous events, he is relegated to the position of an observer. Therefore, ‘Sixties radicalism’ is beyond his grasp. Indeed, the ethos of this landmark period remains remote and insignificant: Such moments unfold just beyond Fogg’s threshold, or on television screens suspended in fogs of barroom smoke, in either case seemingly without embodiment, much less a connection to Fogg’s intellectual preoccupations30.

However, as Fogg formulates his hypothesis equated with this age of upheaval, he states: “ . . . it occurred to me that the inner and outer could not be separated except by doing great damage to the truth”31. Auster reiterates this sentiment in the majority of his writings: self-knowledge is required if the individual is to remain true to himself. In Hand to Mouth Auster details his days as an undergraduate student during the tumultuous campus protests at Columbia University in 1968 and 1969. Auster was arrested after students occupied a campus building, and

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was imprisoned for one night. Despite the frenzied intentions of the students, Auster maintains that the Columbia University protests were largely futile. Although there were minor changes, the academic hierarchy remained in power: In the long run, nothing of any great importance was accomplished . . . In spite of the efforts of thousands, the ivory tower did not collapse. But still, it tottered for a time, and more than a few of its stones crumbled and fell to the ground32.

During the course of his narrative, Fogg mentions the fact that he, like Auster, was an undergraduate student at Columbia University. Comparable to Auster, Fogg immerses himself in the campus protests of 1968 and 1969, and is incarcerated overnight. Fogg’s fictional narrative is interspersed with actual incidents from Auster’s life. Therefore, Fogg becomes both a fictional character as well as a literary duplicate. If Fogg can be considered a version of Auster, his authenticity and all-powerful narrative voice immediately becomes suspect. Auster’s readership accepts the validity of Fogg’s analysis, yet recognizes that Auster encourages a healthy degree of skepticism. In response to questions with regard to the autobiographical detail of Moon Palace, Auster states: It sounds more like an autobiography than any of my other novels, but the truth is that it’s probably the least autobiographical novel I’ve ever written. Still, there are a number of private allusions buried in the story, but it was only after the book was finished that I began to see them33.

Fogg emphasizes the significance of the social and historical backdrop to his narrative, but is this the viewpoint of Auster? Is there any significance associated with the fact that a fictional character focuses upon one moment in recent American history? As Auster comes-of-age during this same era, his opinions may well echo those of Fogg. Therefore, and in spite of Auster’s protestations, Auster’s reader can assume that Auster self-consciously speaks from personal experience. In his role as a consummate storyteller, Auster is non-committal, however, and insists that Moon Palace is primarily a work of fiction. Auster merely incorporates factual detail from his life in order to provide his protagonist with a well-rounded and authentic narrative voice. It is through Fogg, then, that Auster reflects the aspirations and mindset of the collective American national consciousness at a time of intense and unprecedented social and political upheaval.

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II In his preamble to the unfolding story, Fogg establishes the fact that he embarks upon the construction of a life-long, autobiographical tale. As he documents his origins, Fogg details his formative years while living in Chicago with his maternal uncle, Victor Fogg. Fogg’s surname represents the fact that he is an adventurer, and indeed Fogg seems unable to remain stationary. His narrative moves from the urban terrain of New York City to the untamed wilderness of the American Midwest. Though the events depicted within the novel are symptomatic of this existing sense of wanderlust, Fogg emphasizes the fact that his immigrant family surname was originally Fogelman. This Germanic surname roughly translates as ‘birdman’: I liked the idea of having that creature imbedded in who I was. I imagined that some valiant ancestor of mine had once actually been able to fly. A bird flying through fog, I used to think, a giant bird flying across the ocean, not stopping until it reached America34.

Fogg develops his hypothesis and focuses upon the degree of exploration and adventure associated with his own name. His uncle opts for a variety of literal interpretations as opposed to one staid and inflexible certainty, and ignores the actual derivation of Fogg’s name in favor of romanticized associations. Victor Fogg’s inspiration is based upon an amalgamation of elements pertinent to specific genres, including literature, historical fact, and popular culture: Uncle Victor loved to concoct elaborate, nonsensical theories about things, and he never tired of expounding on the glories hidden in my name. Macro Stanley Fogg. According to him, it proved that travel was in my blood, that life would carry me to places where no man had ever been before. Marco, naturally enough, was for Marco Polo, the first European to visit China; Stanley was for the American journalist who had tracked down Dr. Livingstone “in the heart of darkest Africa”; and Fogg was for Phileas, the man who had stormed around the globe in less than three months35.

As Fogg emulates the stance of his literal forefathers, it is not surprising that his quest of discovery encompasses the vast expanse of the American continent. Moon Palace culminates in Fogg’s arrival at Laguna Beach,

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California. His journey is synonymous with newfound emotional and spiritual awareness: I had come to the end of the world, and beyond it there was nothing but air and waves, an emptiness that went clear to the shores of China. This is where I start, I said to myself, this is where my life begins36.

Fogg’s mother died in a traffic accident, and his father’s identity is shrouded in mystery. Thus, his relationship with his uncle is marked by an intense degree of intimacy and camaraderie: “ . . . he treated me less as a child than as a friend, a diminutive and much-adored crony”37. Uncle and nephew consider themselves equals, and each becomes a defense barrier employed against the harsh reality of their collective existence. Victor Fogg, amateur philosopher, spiritual mentor, and mediocre clarinettist, is described as a man with, “ . . . a penchant for aimlessness and reverie, for sudden bolts and lengthy torpors”38. Victor Fogg nurtures his nephew’s intellectual capabilities, and suggests that the younger Fogg search for hidden meanings in the world. Nothing is to be accepted at face value. As opposed to cynicism, Victor Fogg formulates detailed and descriptive accounts of the trivial and ostensibly mundane. Even the title of Fogg’s autobiography is inspired by the connotations of Victor Fogg’s classification scheme. Fogg observes the neon sign of a local Chinese restaurant, and he immediately makes a connection with his uncle, now a member of a band named the Moon Men. As such, Fogg’s recently acquired apartment is considered an extraordinary and welcoming refuge: I immediately thought of Uncle Victor and his band, and in that first irrational moment, my fears lost their hold on me. I had never experienced anything so sudden and absolute. A bare and grubby room had been transformed into a site of inwardness, an intersection point of strange omens and mysterious, arbitrary events. I went on staring at the Moon Palace sign, and little by little I understood that I had come to the right place, that this small apartment was indeed where I was meant to live39.

Victor Fogg deciphers the range of multiple connections associated with a single word. This penchant seems inspired by Auster’s own opinions. Auster resorts to this technique while involved in the process of writing. His thoughts regarding an ostensibly insignificant event or object can influence and determine the plot of any of his novels:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity If you think about any one thing long enough or hard enough, it’s going to begin to reverberate for you. Once that happens, waves are emitted, and those waves travel through space and bounce off other things, which in turn emit their own waves. It’s an associative process, and if you stick with it conscientiously enough, large portions of the world will eventually be touched by your thoughts40.

In Moon Palace, Victor Fogg promulgates his existential philosophy. He scrutinizes the infinite correspondences that exist within the world. In the absence of any one absolute certainty, the elder Fogg focuses upon the positive. Victor Fogg informs his nephew that their paths will cross again, and maintains that ultimately some form of meaning will be revealed: Everything works out in the end, you see, everything connects. The nine circles. The nine planets. The nine innings. Our nine lives. Just think of it. The correspondences are infinite41.

Ultimately, Fogg does not encounter his uncle again. Victor Fogg’s death occurs immediately prior to his long-awaited reunion with his nephew. Lack of connection is predominant within Auster’s literary universe. Therefore, is it the case that Victor Fogg has deceived himself, and his philosophy has collapsed under its own weight? Fogg’s quest ends with his solitary journey to the edge of the American continent. His family and friends become associated with the past, and they exist as fragments of Fogg’s memory. Indeed Auster asserts, “ . . . you don’t begin to understand your connection to others until you are alone”42. Through his narrative, Fogg re-animates these individuals, and his present career is influenced by his interactions with this diverse grouping. Therefore, as memory is one aspect of individual consciousness, Fogg is reunited with his uncle. Although Fogg ends his journey alone, his connection with others becomes manifest in the process of remembrance and composition. In this respect, Fogg echoes the sentiment of his grandfather, Thomas Effing. Effing refers to his own prior history, and states that this, rather than tangible reality is the domain that he inhabits: “I don’t need to go anywhere. The moment I start to think about it, I’m back”43. Fogg is motivated by grief and an overwhelming sense of ineptitude, and easily relinquishes responsibility. He places his faith in the unstable and arbitrary forces of contingency. The orphaned Fogg embarks upon a prolonged period of mourning and becomes increasingly isolated. Victor Fogg was always a reassuring source of comfort and instruction, and his death leaves his nephew unsure of the future. Fogg’s subsequent actions are

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determined by abject loneliness and precipitate his involuntary descent into the abyss: In the end, the problem was not grief. Grief was the first cause, perhaps, but it soon gave way to something else—something more tangible, more calculable in its effects, more violent in the damage it produced. A whole chain of forces had been set in motion, and at a certain point I began to wobble, to fly in greater and greater circles around myself, until at last I spun out of orbit44.

Fogg is bequeathed his uncle’s extensive book collection. He devours his way through Victor Fogg’s eclectic library, and each book symbolizes an aspect of his uncle’s psyche. As Fogg resorts to literature in an attempt to express his grief, he is mechanical in his devotion to his task. His work complete, Fogg refuses to distinguish between the various literary styles: As far as I was concerned, each book was equal to every other book, each sentence was composed of exactly the right number of words, and each word stood exactly where it had to be45.

From the outset, Fogg establishes his literary credentials and bookish tendencies. His unquestioning devotion to his craft indicates his reaction to the death of his uncle. Fogg’s inability to critique his reading material suggests that he has already veered away from his uncle’s existential persuasions. Rather than a mechanical and non-judgemental activity, Victor Fogg considers the act of reading a means of fantastical escape. As Fogg accentuates the random aspect of the task at hand, he simultaneously struggles to articulate his hypothesis on the dialectic between chance and order. Auster intimates that Fogg will discover some semblance of clarity by the end of his journey: Fogg wends his way among all these ideas, this pinball machine of associations, struggling to find a place for himself. By the end of the book I think he manages to get somewhere. But he only reaches the beginning, the brink of his adult life46.

Fogg’s blinkered devotion to the act of reading, moreover, ensures that he remains spiritually bereft. He indicates that he has failed to comprehend the logic of his uncle’s teachings. Fogg’s ambivalence towards this over-abundance of words becomes manifest during his period of starvation, and the end result is abject poverty. Sustenance comes in the form of meager rations,

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and Fogg gorges upon two elaborate meals. His second orgiastic feast results in nausea and prolonged vomiting. As opposed to feeling fulfilled, Fogg continues to experience pangs of hunger. Fogg surrenders to his self-destructive quest and passivity ensures that he jeopardizes his mental well-being. Comparable to Benjamin Sachs in Leviathan, Fogg rejects the written word, and asserts that he will be solely responsible for his actions: I understood that I had already spent too much of my life living through words, and if this time was going to have any meaning for me, I would have to live in it as fully as possible, shunning everything but the here and now, the tangible, the vast sensorium pressing down on my skin47.

The emaciated and penniless Fogg refuses to seek financial assistance. As a consequence, he accepts his role as a passive observer in life. Fogg seeks justification for his actions, and intimates that he is motivated by an impassive, yet stubborn, rejection of the surrogate father by whom he has been abandoned: I decided that the thing I should do was nothing: my action would consist of a militant refusal to take any action at all. This was nihilism raised to the level of an aesthetic proposition. I would turn my life into a work of art, sacrificing myself to such exquisite paradoxes that every breath I took would teach me how to savour my own doom. The signs pointed to a total eclipse, and grope as I did for another reading, the image of that darkness gradually lured me in, seduced me with the simplicity of its design48.

Fogg is forced to sell his uncle’s book collection, and simultaneously watches his weight drop. His adopted lifestyle ensures that he becomes distanced from his sense of self. As Fogg follows his mission to its logical conclusion, he begins to lose his grip on reality. Starvation, isolation and neglect result in hallucinations and mental deterioration: I struggled to achieve some equilibrium within myself, but it was no use: everything was instability, turmoil, outrageous whim. At one moment I was engaged in a philosophical quest, supremely confident that I was about to join the ranks of the illuminati; at the next moment I was in tears, collapsing under the weight of my own anguish. My self-absorption was so intense that I could no longer see things for

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what they were: objects became thoughts, and every thought was a part of the drama being played out inside me49.

Fogg refuses to accept his predicament, however, and attempts to dispel harsh reality. Indeed, Fogg insists that he has become ethereal. Therefore, the conventions that affect the outside world are no longer relevant: In order to rise above my circumstances, I had to convince myself that I was no longer real, and the result was that all of reality began to waver for me50.

Life intrudes in the guise of Fogg’s landlord, and his inward quest comes to an abrupt end. Fogg is unceremoniously evicted from his apartment. Again, rather than take responsibility, Fogg wholeheartedly surrenders to the forces of contingency. Fogg emulates the stance of Daniel Quinn in City of Glass, and his future career is determined by the movement of his steps as opposed to any clear sense of direction. Fogg’s involuntary footsteps lead him towards his intended destiny and his subsequent existence within the confines of Central Park: When I left my apartment on the first morning, I simply started walking, going wherever my steps decided to take me. If I had any thought at all, it was to let chance determine what happened, to follow the path of impulse and arbitrary events51.

During the latter stages of his sojourn in Central Park, Fogg can be compared to the protagonist of Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. The Art of Hunger is an amalgamation of essays, interviews and anecdotal incidents, and Auster provides a commentary on the novel by Hamsun entitled, “The Art of Hunger.” Auster suggests that Hamsun’s unnamed protagonist recklessly courts his inevitable demise. He fails to accept responsibility, and like Fogg, embarks upon his own illogical and ruinous quest: “The hero suffers, but only because he has chosen to suffer . . . From the very beginning, it is made clear that the hero need not starve”52. Comparable to Fogg, the protagonist of Hunger is aware of the futility of his predicament and realizes that ultimately salvation can be achieved. Although Hamsun’s protagonist is isolated in the town of Christiana, Norway, Hamsun informs his readership that the protagonist remains stationary through choice. Similarly, Fogg ignores outside intervention. Fogg voluntarily ventures to Central Park, and as such must accept the consequences of his actions. With the passing of time, the Hunger Artist is

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consumed by the remit of his restrictive lifestyle. Auster states: “Mind and body have been weakened; the hero has lost control over both his thoughts and actions. And yet he persists in trying to control his destiny”53. Hamsun’s protagonist struggles to enforce some semblance of structure. The logic of the mission ensures that he cannot coherently articulate his opinions. The protagonist of Hunger is motivated by a sense of stubbornness and intellectual superiority. Moreover, his choice signifies a death wish, and he is enticed by the intoxicating concept of the end of life: In the end, the art of hunger can be described as an existential art. It’s a way of looking death in the face, and by death I mean death as we live it today: without God, without hope of salvation. Death as the abrupt and absurd end of life54.

Auster is influenced by Hamsun’s writings, and in particular Hunger and it may be the case that Auster has based Fogg’s experiences during this period of isolation and enforced starvation, upon those of the protagonist of Hamsun’s novel. Therefore, Fogg can be labeled a ‘Hunger Artist.’ Fogg’s griefstricken quest is simultaneously determined by his own flirtation with death. Fogg’s hallucinations become more pronounced prior to his rescue, and his consciousness veers towards the abstract. Fogg no longer recognizes his corporeal form and involuntarily instigates a conversation with his transitory and otherworldly döppelganger. The voices of Fogg’s duplicate selves state: “No one is allowed to die more than once. The comedy will be over soon, and you’ll never have to go through it again”55. Auster documents the life choices made in Hunger. He could very well provide a critique of Moon Palace, as Fogg experiences a range of similar emotions during his final days in Central Park: He remains at the bottom, and no God will come to rescue the young man. He cannot even depend on the props of social convention to keep him standing. He is rootless, without friends, denuded of objects. Order has disappeared for him; everything has become random. His actions are inspired by nothing but whim and ungovernable urge, the weary frustration of anarchic discontent56.

While Hamsun’s Hunger was written in 1890, Auster insists that the aspirations of the novel’s protagonist are more akin with those of the twentiethcentury. Hamsun anticipates Modernist concerns and influences a range of later authors:

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Hamsun’s character systematically unburdens himself of every belief in every system, and in the end, by means of the hunger he has inflicted upon himself, he arrives at nothing. There is nothing to keep him going—and yet he keeps going. He walks straight into the twentieth century57.

Fogg struggles to find his path in life. While his psyche has been shaped by his formative upbringing, he is unable to cope alone and ultimately opts for an unhealthy reliance upon the contingent event. The caves of Central Park provide Fogg a brief respite from the overwhelming tumult that he has experienced. Fogg is improbably rescued from impending doom, and overemphasizes the significance of this random occurrence. Fogg details the logic of his inexplicable encounter with Kitty Wu and his former roommate, David Zimmer: “I came to see that chance as a form of readiness, a way of saving myself through the minds of others”58. Fogg recalls the dramatic intervention of Wu and Zimmer, and marvels at the fact that he is no longer alone. Outside intervention and friendship ensure that he is not abandoned to his fate. Fogg comments upon the actions of his friends, and indicates that he equates contingency with love: I had jumped off the edge of a cliff, and then, just as I was about to hit bottom, an extraordinary event took place: I learned that there were people who loved me. To be loved like that makes all the difference. It does not lessen the terror of the fall, but it gives a new perspective on what that terror means. I had jumped off the edge, and then, at the very last moment, something reached out and caught me in midair. That something is what I define as love. It is the one thing that can stop a man from falling, the one thing powerful enough to negate the laws of gravity59.

Fogg encounters Wu at the former apartment of Zimmer, and is introduced to his ‘twin.’ The couple both wear T-shirts bearing the word, ‘Mets.’ After Fogg’s recovery from the ardor of his life in the wilderness, he again meets Wu. He discovers that she is an orphan, and therefore, a duplicate of himself. Fogg embarks upon a relationship with Wu, and they enjoy an idyllic period of domestic bliss. Fogg, a product of his earlier experiences, however, witnesses his latent feelings for his late uncle transferred to his lover. The couple face their first crisis as Wu falls pregnant and insists on a termination. Thus, the relationship is irrecoverably fractured. Fogg recalls his mother’s actions, and is unable to accept Wu’s decision:

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From the distance of middle age, Fogg recalls this traumatic period in his life. He sees himself and Wu to be childish, selfish, and ultimately insensitive to each other’s needs. Symptomatic of his life and mindset at a specific period in time, Fogg’s association with Wu and Zimmer is firmly rooted in the past. Fogg’s relationship with Wu is irreparable. When he briefly encounters Zimmer after a gap of thirteen years, Fogg routinely states: “I have not seen or heard from him since”61. As connections exist within Auster’s literary universe, David Zimmer is the protagonist of The Book of Illusions. The novel opens with the accidental deaths of Zimmer’s wife and sons, the younger of whom is named, Marco. In a previous lifetime, Zimmer was the erstwhile lover of Anna Blume, protagonist of In the Country of Last Things. It appears that Blume’s disappearance occurs in tandem with the events depicted in Moon Palace. Fogg relinquishes responsibility and the contingent event is considered to be of monumental significance. Contingency becomes equated with paralyzing apathy, and as Fogg equates contingency with destiny, his future career is determined by arbitrary decadence. In “From Hermeneutics in Social Science toward a Hermeneutics of Social Science,” Agnes Heller asserts that contingency is a facet of contemporary existence. Heller states that individuals who embrace contingency are those who self-consciously exhaust every other avenue: An individual has transformed his or her contingency into his or her destiny if this person has arrived at the consciousness of having made the best out of his or her practically infinite possibilities62.

Fogg contemplates an escape from his predicament. He considers his options yet resolutely rejects any form of assistance. Fogg’s dealings with others are determined by the rhetoric of his newfound illogical mantra. At the close of the novel, Fogg finally echoes the viewpoint expressed by Victor Fogg, and, more significantly, Auster. While Auster insists that an acceptance of the unpredictable is indicative of daily life, with Moon Palace he fully articulates his stance on the question of inexplicable coincidence as opposed to rigid determination. In “Pompous Circumstance: Paul Auster Indulges Himself,”

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Gary Indiana denigrates Auster for an over-emphasis on coincidence. Indiana faults a succession of improbable occurrences that ensure the outlandish plot of the novel clumsily progresses. However, Auster asserts that coincidences do exist, and are indicative of the fact that life is wholly random. Auster again declares that the individual must accept responsibility for his or her actions. Moon Palace ends with Fogg’s coming-of-age, and it comprises a comprehensive rejection of his earlier misguided lifestyle. By the close of the novel Fogg is alone. Rather than the negative connotations associated with isolation, Fogg celebrates his solitude. In the wake of fleeting and unsustainable connections, Fogg equates his relationship with his uncle, the most stable in the novel, and solitude with redemption and spiritual rebirth. Fogg moves away from his abject surrender to the forces of contingency, and finally acquires self-knowledge. Fogg accepts that, as coincidence is predominant within contemporary society, he should welcome these arbitrary occurrences yet continue to persevere with his chosen path. Fogg’s realization adheres to the viewpoint expressed by Zygmunt Bauman, in “Postmodernity, or Living with Ambivalence.” Bauman asserts that, as individual reaction is more significant than any one definitive certainty, recognition of contingency can result in a variety of multiple outcomes. The contingent event exhibits both positive and negative connotations: Contingent existence means existence devoid of certainty, and one certainty that is missing at this desolate site of ours, or difficult to be excavated from beneath the debris of modern truths, is the certainty of solidarity. The road from tolerance to solidarity, like any other road, is undetermined; it is itself contingent. And so is the other road, one leading from tolerance to indifference and estrangement; it is equally contingent, and thus equally plausible. The state of tolerance is intrinsically and incurably ambivalent. It lends itself with equal ease, or equal difficulty, to celebratory praise and scornful condemnation; it may give occasion to joy as much as to despair63.

III By the close of Moon Palace, Fogg has been reunited with his absent father, Solomon Barber. Fogg marvels at the recurrent similarities between his history and that of his progenitors. Barber is the abandoned son of Fogg’s former employer, Thomas Effing. In a previous incarnation, Effing was an

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American Landscape Painter named Julian Barber. Effing’s pseudonym is invented prior to his son’s birth, and Barber has been forever devoid of a father figure. Barber’s union with Fogg’s mother Emily is cursory in the extreme. Like Barber, Fogg is always unaware of his biological father’s identity. Fogg assumes the position of Effing’s biographer and unwittingly constructs an obituary for his long-forgotten grandfather. In Auster’s writings, the father is a mysterious and indefinable presence who haunts his son’s existence. As such, Fogg’s quest of discovery culminates in a Pyrrhic victory. Indeed, Fogg’s father and grandfather both die before a fully-fledged familial connection can be established. Effing constructs his own historical narrative, and documents his transformation from Julian Barber to Thomas Effing. Accordingly, the action of the novel moves to the early years of the Twentieth Century. Effing, the son of a banker, wishes to explore the exotic and untamed American Midwest. His intention is to pursue his artistic craft. Effing escapes his privileged background and a loveless marriage. He travels with a young neighbor, Edward Byrne. Byrne’s horse loses its footing, however, and Effing watches helplessly as his companion dies. Byrne’s death results in an overwhelming sense of isolation for Effing. Effing’s outburst of anger reflects his emotional torment, as well as a comprehensive rejection of his prior existence: “Afterward, I didn’t make a cross or say any prayers. Fuck God, I said to myself, fuck God, I won’t give him the satisfaction”64. The stranded and distraught Effing experiences a breakdown: “I started to scream, and after that I just let myself be crazy”65. Fogg insists that Effing would not question his own prior history, and there are direct parallels between his story and that of his grandfather. Fogg himself is unexpectedly caught in a thunderstorm, and is soaked to the skin. Lack of shelter also ensures that he further damages his health. Fogg reflects upon his grandfather’s reaction to his predicament, and empathizes with the ostracized Effing. As Fogg is Effing’s progeny and döppelganger, his plight during his period of enforced isolation is a diluted version of the dilemma faced by his grandfather: I had done my fair share of screaming during the storm in Central Park, and my situation had been far less desperate than his. When a man feels he has come to the end of his rope, it is perfectly natural that he should want to scream. The air bunches in his lungs, and he cannot breathe unless he pushes it out of him, unless he howls it forth with all his strength. Otherwise, he will choke on his own breath, the very sky will smother him66.

Fogg craves protection from the worsening elements, and desperately seeks some form of shelter. He locates “ . . . a cluster of large rocks surrounded

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by overgrown foliage and trees”67. Emotionally exhausted and with his physique and stamina wholly depleted, Fogg views the cave as a necessary lifeline. Effing’s identity is revealed to Fogg, and the latter realizes that history repeats itself. Effing finds solace in the cave of a murdered hermit named Tom. Ensconced in his newfound environment, Effing’s narrative becomes increasingly fantastical: “ . . . it was precisely at that moment that everything changed for him again, that his life suddenly veered in a new direction”68. After a prolonged period of isolation, Effing retreats from the desert. His new life, like that of his grandson some fifty years later, begins in California. The disgruntled Effing wryly concocts his new pseudonym, and rejects his contradictory past lives: In writing out the word Thomas, he had probably been reminded of the phrase doubting Thomas. The gerund had then given way to another: fucking Thomas, which for convention’s sake had been further modified into f-ing. Thus, he was Thomas Effing, the man who had fucked his life69.

Fogg questions the veracity of his grandfather’s hypothesis, however, because the self-made Effing was somehow able to alter the balance of nature. Effing claims that he was responsible for the New York City blackout of autumn 1965. Effing informs Fogg that each individual is accountable for his or her actions. Significance seems attached to even irrelevant arbitrary happenings: There are no coincidences. That word is used only by ignorant people. Everything in the world is made up of electricity, animate and inanimate things alike. Even thoughts give off an electrical charge. If they’re strong enough, a man’s thoughts can change the world around him70.

Effing finishes his narrative, and he wishes to distribute his money randomly among his neighbors. Effing tells Fogg that this will be his final act. His death will occur on a designated date in the near future—May 12, 1970. Effing deliberately carries a broken umbrella, and is caught in an unexpected downpour. The elderly millionaire suffers a chill, and Fogg initially asserts that his grandfather has interfered with the laws of probability: In spite of his failing strength, he continued to believe that he was in control of his destiny, and this illusion persisted right up to the end: the idea that he had masterminded his own death, that everything was preceding according to plan71.

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Effing insists that he alone can predict the future. However, as his condition worsens, Fogg states that this moment of recklessness may ultimately prove his grandfather’s undoing. Fogg arrives at Effing’s apartment on the date in question, and discovers that his grandfather was indeed accurate. The incredulous Fogg laughs at the absurdity of the situation: “So Effing had made it to the twelfth, after all. It seemed so preposterous that I didn’t know how to react”72. Effing remains true to his word. He predicts and possibly wills his own death. Has Effing counteracted his preordained destiny? Rather than search for some form of truth, Fogg displays a healthy degree of skepticism and Effing’s prophecy is left open to interpretation. Effing illustrates the sequence of events prior to his rebirth. He reveals that he has fathered a son, Solomon. The child’s conception is a product of a fleeting moment of passion: “Consequences. That’s the way it is, boy. There are always consequences, whether you like it or not”73. Effing abandons his wife, Elizabeth, and he is unaware of his son’s birth. Thus, Effing sets in motion a destructive and recurring chain of events. In what may be the most bizarre coincidence in the novel, Barber shared an interrupted night of passion with Fogg’s mother, Emily. Father and son are finally reunited after Effing’s death. Similarities abound between the lives of Fogg and Barber. Barber is haunted by the loss of his father. Simultaneously, he is denied any involvement in Fogg’s life. Moreover, Fogg himself appears unable to prevent the termination of his own unborn child. After his mother is hospitalized, Barber’s upbringing falls to his maternal uncle, Binkey Wheeler. During his childhood, Fogg resorts to make-believe in an attempt to explain his father’s absence: “I imagined him as a dark-haired version of Buck Rogers, a space traveller who had passed into the fourth dimension and could not find his way back”74. Barber employs the written word in order to eulogize his disappeared father, and Fogg discovers that his own sense of longing is also an inherited trait. Barber composes his adolescent novel, Kepler’s Blood, a tale, which Fogg suggests “ . . . lurched from one improbability to the next”75. Barber’s fantastical adventure story deals with space travel and the disappearance and subsequent rebirth of its protagonist, John Kepler. As Fogg details Barber’s literary style, he unwittingly refers to the narrative conventions employed within the construction of his own autobiography. Barber is abandoned by his father, and rejected by his mother. He finds a momentary ally in Emily Fogg. Their short-lived union leads to Barber’s expulsion from his employment as a college lecturer. Fogg’s mother simultaneously vanishes from Barber’s life. Barber emulates the stance of both his father and his son. He retreats inward, and his gargantuan body forms a protective shell:

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The larger his body grew, the more deeply he buried himself inside it. Barber’s goal was to shut himself off from the world, to make himself invisible in the massiveness of his own flesh76.

Barber achieves his desired goal, and isolates himself from society. All associations are transitory and therefore, easily discarded. Comparable to his father and son, Barber descends into the abyss of his own making. His obesity becomes a symptom of his despair and helplessness: He was alone now, entirely separate from everyone: a bulbous eggshaped monad plodding through the shambles of his consciousness. But the work had paid off, and he no longer feared this isolation. By plunging into the chaos that inhabited him, he had become Solomon Barber at last, a personage, a someone, a self-created world unto himself77.

The reunion between Fogg and Barber proves short-lived, however, and Barber dies in a freak accident. The father and son embark upon a journey to locate Effing’s abandoned cave. During the course of their travels, the pair visit Emily Fogg’s grave. At the graveside, an altercation develops between Fogg and Barber. Fogg lunges at Barber, and the latter loses his balance. Fogg watches helplessly as his father falls into a recently opened grave. Barber’s obesity, coupled with the injuries he receives, result in his untimely death. Fogg is motivated by his father’s death, and continues his journey. Fogg’s intention is to discover the whereabouts of Effing’s legendary hideout. With the passing of time, the cave has been immersed under the newly created Lake Powell. Fogg is unable to verify Effing’s tale. Yet it is with hindsight that Fogg can begin to contextualize the ramifications of his detrimental paternal legacy: Once I reached the end of the continent, I felt that some important question would be resolved for me. I had no idea what that question was, but the answer had already been formed in my steps, and I had only to keep walking to know that I had left myself behind, that I was no longer the person I had once been78.

IV In an example of the way in which art mimics life, the trilogy of the father, son and grandson in Moon Palace correspond to Auster, his father, Samuel, and enigmatic grandfather, Harry. Auster is involved in the process of

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storification, and has been accused of the construction of fantastical and improbable tales. In “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster narrates his own familial history in a manner as remarkable as the plot of any of his novels. In the wake of his father’s death, Auster attempts to act as a biographer. Samuel Auster is a withdrawn introvert, however, and his son is ill-equipped to fulfil his desired mission. Auster asserts that the title “Portrait of an Invisible Man” relates to his father. The autobiographical detail of the memoir suggests that he simultaneously refers to his grandfather. Harry Auster has been forever airbrushed from the family history. As Auster unearths the truth in relation to his origins, “Portrait of an Invisible Man” becomes a belated obituary for his own grandfather. Auster alludes to the mysterious death of his grandfather. Presented with contradictory versions of events, he has been unable to ascertain the definitive truth. Harry Auster’s children concoct a conspiracy of silence, and their father is relegated to the position of an inaccessible and taboo figure: No one ever talked about my grandfather. Until a few years ago, I had never seen a picture of him. It was as though the family had decided to pretend he had never existed79.

Auster’s cousin holidayed in Europe in 1970, and encountered a former resident of Kenosha, Wisconsin, the birthplace of Auster’s father. The Auster family history is explained, and the facts related to Harry Auster’s death are relayed to Auster. Thus, the long-standing and mysterious family secret is replaced with accuracy and clarification: It is not that I am afraid of the truth. I am not even afraid to say it. My grandmother murdered my grandfather. On January 23, 1919, precisely sixty years before my father died, his mother shot and killed his father80.

The marriage of Auster’s grandparents was marked by conflict, periods of separation, and charges of infidelity. Anna Auster murders her husband while two of their children are at home, and the Auster children are called as witnesses during the course of their mother’s much publicized trial. Anna Auster initially pleads guilty. However, she subsequently asserts that she acted in self-defense. Anna Auster is acquitted, and the Auster family migrate from Kenosha. The repercussions of the trial result in an increased bond of affection between mother and children: “This was the relationship that mattered, and it took precedence over everything else”81. Auster’s father and uncles are

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unable to discuss the past, and devotion to their mother guarantees collective silence. Auster himself reverts to the written word in order to follow his grandmother’s trial. Auster is appalled at the degree of xenophobia employed by the staff of the Kenosha Evening News. Auster recognizes that the journalistic conventions employed relate to the particular time period. However, he cannot excuse the latent display of anti-Semitism: They are a mixture of scandal-mongering and sentimentality, heightened by the fact that the people involved were Jews—and therefore strange, almost by definition—which gives the whole account a leering, condescending tone82.

Auster suggests that, the Kenosha Evening News thrives on stories of murder, attempted suicide and classic retribution, and considers the Auster family a social pariah. The Auster’s ethnic and religious background accentuates these derogatory representations. Auster cites the attitude of the local journalists, who arguably pander to readership expectations. Therefore, he comes to understand the family’s enforced exile and the subsequent nature of their lives. Auster is confronted with the reality of the events in question. He is unnerved by the ferocity of public opinion and blatant disrespect for his family’s plight. Auster expresses his reservations: “The difficult thing is to see them in print—unburied, so to speak, from the realm of secrets and turned into a public event”83. Auster strives to attain a semblance of closure, yet realizes the extent to which his grandfather’s murder has cast a looming shadow upon his own upbringing. The Auster family is unable to embark upon a new beginning. Suspicious of the outside world, the family becomes increasingly introverted. As each shares similar experiences, each represents a form of security and solidarity. The insular and constricting nature of these relationships, however, ensure that all others are excluded: In a family that had already closed in on itself, this nomadism walled them off entirely. There were no enduring points of reference: no home, no town, no friends that could be counted on. Only the family itself. It was almost like living in quarantine84.

The ramifications of Harry Auster’s death have a profound effect upon Auster’s father. Despite Samuel Auster’s marriage, and the fact that he fathers two children, he remains committed to his mother and brothers. Auster states that the four Auster brothers can be classed as one single entity: “I think of

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them not as four separate individuals but as a clan, a quadruplicate image of solidarity”85. Döppelgangers and duality are prevalent within Auster’s literary universe, and it may be the case that Auster has again resorted to personal experience. The duplicate individual appears as a constant presence during Auster’s formative years and the narratives about them. In the wake of Samuel Auster’s death, Auster locates a photograph of his father’s family. The photograph, in his father’s possession for many years, lets Auster study the assembled grouping. As Auster peruses this image of family solidarity, however, he notices something that has forever eluded him. Auster assumes that his grandfather was merely absent on the day that the photograph was taken. On closer inspection Auster comprehends that his grandfather has been meticulously removed. The children and their mother constitute the Auster family. Harry Auster, on the other hand, remains a distant outsider and is obliterated from memory: And then I realized what was strange about the picture: my grandfather had been cut out of it. The image was distorted because part of it had been eliminated. My grandfather had been sitting in a chair next to his wife with one of his sons standing between his knees—and he was not there. Only his fingertips remained: as if he were trying to crawl back into the picture from some hole deep in time, as if he had been exiled to another dimension86.

As the frontispiece to “Portrait of an Invisible Man” there is a reproduction of this same photograph. Auster draws attention to the mysterious nature of his grandfather’s existence. He simultaneously highlights the reverberations of the violent death within the family unit, and in particular, its effect upon Auster’s father: “A boy cannot live through this kind of thing without being affected by it as a man”87. As a consequence of Samuel Auster’s upbringing and persona, his marriage is short lived. Indeed, Auster’s parents divorced when he was a teenager. The elder Auster is suspicious of intimacy, and his wife and children are considered strangers. Outsiders threaten Samuel Auster’s idea of common solidarity, and he remains vacant, impassive, and largely disinterested: For a man who finds life tolerable only by staying on the surface of himself, it is natural to be satisfied with offering no more than this surface to others. There are few demands to be met, and no commitment is required. Marriage, on the other hand, closes the door. Your existence is confined to a narrow space in which you are constantly forced to reveal

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yourself—and therefore, constantly obliged to look into yourself, to examine your own depths. When the door is open there is never any problem: you can always escape. You can avoid unwarranted confrontations, either with yourself or with another, simply by walking away88.

Auster’s father’s peripheral stance is determined by learned and unconscious behavior. Samuel Auster remains committed to the logic of his established norm. Auster details the negative effects of this constrictive desire for routine, and insists that his father’s psyche is irrecoverably damaged. Samuel Auster seeks solace within the confines of an artificially constructed world. Over time, he acquires an almost translucent persona. The inner sanctum is preferable to the chaotic outside world. Auster’s father, like his fictive döppelganger, Solomon Barber, adopts a variety of coping mechanisms. Auster details his own desire for solitude while engaged in the production of his art form. This contrasts with his father’s stance however, because Samuel Auster views isolation as a means of self-preservation: Solitary. But not in the sense of being alone. Not solitary in the way Thoreau was, for example, exiling himself in order to find out where he was; not solitary in the way Jonah was, praying for deliverance in the belly of the whale. Solitary in the sense of retreat. In the sense of not having to see himself, of not having to see himself being seen by anyone else89.

Samuel Auster’s sanctuary is invaded, and interaction with others is a prerequisite of daily life. Auster’s father employs deception and resorts to a distorted sense of reality. He is forced to continually practice and eventually master the logic of his duplicitous art form. The barriers that Samuel Auster has self-consciously erected become impenetrable: What people saw when he appeared before them, then, was not really him, but a person he had invented, an artificial creature he could manipulate in order to manipulate others. He himself remained invisible, a puppeteer working the strings of his alter-ego from a dark, solitary place behind the curtain90.

In “The Book of Memory,” the second book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster focuses upon his role as a father to his son, Daniel. Auster communicates his thoughts through the persona of the other. Rather than write from a first-person perspective, Auster resorts to the fictive, A. Thus, it is A.

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rather than Auster who examines the concept of fatherhood. A. ponders his role as a father, and articulates his hypothesis on the nature of father-son relationships: When the father dies, he writes, the son becomes his own father and his own son. He looks at his son and sees himself in the face of the boy. He imagines what the boy sees when he looks at him and finds himself becoming his own father. Inexplicably, he is moved by this. It is not just the sight of the boy that moves him, nor even the thought of standing inside his father, but what he sees in the boy of his own vanished past. It is a nostalgia for his own life that he feels, perhaps, a memory of his own boyhood as a son to his father91.

“The Book of Memory” investigates A.’s more idealistic musings on fatherhood, and he focuses upon literary and historical father-son relationships. The bonds of fatherhood become equated with unconditional love, suffering, and sacrifice. A. seeks inspiration from a variety of sources, and struggles to repel past influences. During his stay in France, A. finds his own surrogate father, a French composer named S. S. is estranged from his sons, and over the years develops a friendship with A. Thus, each becomes a substitute for that which is lost. A. recalls his relationship with S., and indicates that he continues the search for his own absent father. However, the surrogate father offers a source of paternal nourishment and support: Many years later, at a time of great personal distress, he realized that what drew him continually to these meetings with S. was that they allowed him to experience, for the first time, what it felt like to have a father92.

Auster can contextualize his paternal legacy, and instigate his own path. Selfawareness yields the end product of his internal quest, and Auster’s relationship with his son stands in marked contrast to that with his father. A. refers to his problematic relationship with his father: “His own father was a remote, almost absent figure with whom he had very little in common”93. As A. is a version of Auster, Auster’s reader assumes that this is the father-son relationship that Auster elaborates upon in the companion piece, “Portrait of an Invisible Man.” Auster’s relationship with his father is distant and characterized by an element of mutual incomprehension. Despite existing estrangement, Auster is not prepared for his father’s unexpected death. In “S. A. 1911–1979,” Auster experiences his father’s physical absence, and explores the long-lasting effects of his death. As Auster mourns the loss of his father, he highlights the ways in which

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grief has invaded his consciousness, with his reaction comparable to mental collapse: From loss. And from such loss that marauds the mind—even to the loss of mind94.

Auster contemplates his late father’s death, and ponders the ever-present intrusion of the unexpected. Auster cannot account for the sudden demise of his father. He struggles to articulate his emotions, but insists that words are insignificant. Auster futilely searches for a form of language that will clarify and explain the concept that is death: To say no more than the truth of it: men die, the world fails, the words have no meaning. And therefore to ask only for words95.

An advocate of a belief in the forces of contingency, Auster simultaneously asserts that, as humanity is powerless to prevent the inevitable, death itself can be classified a contingent happening. Death remains a facet of daily existence, and for Auster, life appears wholly random. As Auster contemplates his own mortality, he accentuates the haphazard and transient nature of human existence: But for a man to die of no apparent cause, for a man to die simply because he is a man, brings us so close to the invisible boundary between life and death that we no longer know which side we are on. Life becomes death, and it is as if this death has owned this life all along. Death without warning. Which is to say: life stops. And it can stop at any moment96.

As Auster attempts to reclaim his absent father, he is promptly spurred into action. He employs the written word as a vehicle to rejuvenate his father’s existence: “I thought: my father is gone. If I do not act quickly, his entire life will vanish along with him”97. As his biography progresses, Auster notes that his father is a wholly contradictory individual, and arguably, a man who fails to reveal his true nature to those with whom he comes in contact: In the deepest, most unalterable sense, he was an invisible man. Invisible to others, and most likely invisible to himself as well. If, while he

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Auster’s father is withdrawn and largely distant, yet Auster discovers that these qualities are one facet of a contradictory personality. Devoted son, estranged father, confirmed loner, generous landlord, Samuel Auster’s life cannot be classified: “At times I have the feeling that I am writing about three or four different men, each one distinct, each one a contradiction of all the others”99. Auster is unable to act as his father’s biographer. As such, he highlights the difficulties encountered as one attempts to document and elucidate the existence of another. Each individual stands ultimately alone: Impossible, I realize, to enter another’s solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known100.

The search for the elusive father remains a mainstay of Auster’s writings. In Timbuktu, William Guerevitch mourns the untimely death of his father. Guerevitch believes that his formative years have been shaped by the fact that his father has abandoned him. Therefore, he remains a damaged and socially ostracized individual: . . . what could be more terrible than losing your old man six weeks after your twelfth birthday? It marked you as a tragic figure, disqualified you from the rat race of vain hopes and sentimental illusions, bestowed on you an aura of legitimate suffering101.

The relationship between Guerevitch and his father was always problematical, however. While Guerevitch grieves for his absent father, he simultaneously experiences a sensation of relief. Guerevitch’s father was a contradictory individual, and his early death enables his son to forge his own path in life. Guerevitch rejects and rebels against the authority of fatherhood and favors self-determination: His father had always been a riddle to him, a man prone to weeklong silences and sudden outbursts of rage, and more than once he had slapped down Willy for the smallest, most trifling infraction. No, it

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wasn’t hard to adjust to life without that bag of explosives. It didn’t take any effort at all102.

Auster even acts as editor for I Thought My Father Was God, and Other True Tales from NPR’s National Story Project. Although Auster insists that these various anecdotal tales were chosen randomly, it is significant that he opts for this apparently autobiographical title for the work. “I Thought My Father Was God” by Robert Winnie is a tale in which the enigmatic and largerthan-life father acquires the status of an all-powerful deity. Winnie’s story deals with a confrontation between his father and an elderly neighbor, Mr. Bernhauser. In the course of their altercation, Winnie’s father intimates that he wishes that Bernhauser were dead. The old man promptly succumbs to a fatal heart attack. Winnie is incredulous, and believes that his father’s power and authority have interfered with the laws of probability: “I thought my father was God. That he could yell at a miserable old man and make him die on command was beyond my comprehension”103. CONCLUSION Auster is a self-consciously postmodern author. He ensures that the inclusion of autobiographical detail in his writings can be interpreted in a variety of ways. Indeed, skepticism and a cognitive lack of certainty can be attached to his non-committal stance. Auster asserts that his fictional writings are products of his imagination. The logic of the fantastical tale becomes more significant than intense critical scrutiny. In the construction of his novels, Auster adheres to standard narrative practices. Thus, Moon Palace is a work of fiction, and its historical narrative stems from Auster’s literary intellect. Auster inhabits the minds of his various protagonists, but it is the voice of the fictional character that dictates the action of a plot: “Each one of these people thinks differently, speaks differently, writes differently from all the others”104. Auster maintains that his novels are the property of fictional characters. He rewards his fictive creations with authorship and authority. As the factual Auster inhabits a world in which lack of certainty is predominant, he is unable to verify the authenticity of each distinct narrative. By contrast, Auster intimates that he is merely a facilitator, and transcribes each tale as it has been communicated to him. Although Auster insists that the varieties of narrative perspective are pertinent to his literary universe, can Auster’s reader accept this sentiment at face value? Or, is this merely an obvious postmodern literary device? Auster berates his inclusion within the corpus of postmodern authors, and refuses classification. Yet,

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Auster specializes in the amalgamation of fact and fiction, and his characters display his autobiographical attributes. Thus, Auster communicates his intentions through the voices of his fictional characters. Auster constructs his postmodern ‘autobiography,’ and involves himself in the process of life-writing. As his protagonists voice his concerns and anxieties, Auster is continually involved in the duplicitous art of self-invention. Auster opens “Portrait of an Invisible Man” with a quotation from Heraclitus: “In searching out the truth be ready for the unexpected, for it is difficult to find and puzzling when you find it.” This statement can be applied to The Invention of Solitude and Moon Palace. In “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the details of Harry Auster’s murder come to light, and Auster reflects upon the ramifications of this past event. A range of multiple and contradictory accounts give way to one authenticated and absolute certainty. An advocate of skepticism and contingency, Auster is ill-prepared for this shocking revelation. Auster is forced to admit that his knowledge of his own father is limited and cursory in the extreme. Therefore, Samuel Auster’s death represents impenetrable closure. More significantly, as Auster embarks upon his own inward quest in “The Book of Memory,” A. alludes to his acquired level of self-awareness. The truth becomes associated with his acceptance of the random and inexplicable workings of the world. During the course of Moon Palace, Fogg embarks upon a quest to unearth a definitive truth. In his desire for clarity, Fogg discovers his origins and sense of self. His quest is marked by the realization that he is ultimately alone. At the close of Moon Palace, Fogg drives through the Nevada Desert in search of his grandfather’s abandoned cave. As Fogg investigates the newly formed Lake Powell, his car is stolen. Auster details the inspiration for The Music of Chance, and states: “I realized that I wanted to get back inside that car, to give myself a chance to go on driving around America”105. As Fogg’s interrupted car journey continues in The Music of Chance, the novel’s protagonist, Jim Nashe, becomes a substitute for Fogg. As has been stated in the opening section of this chapter, Fogg can be considered a version of Auster. Moreover, Fogg appears a forerunner for many of Auster’s later protagonists. Jim Nashe, Benjamin Sachs, and William Guerevitch, all echo the logic of Fogg’s existential mantra. Each of Auster’s successive protagonists embarks upon a journey of discovery, and in the process each acquires self-knowledge. For Nashe, Sachs and Guerevitch, however, awareness is equated with death or the possibility of obliteration. Thus, as Auster’s later protagonists seem to be at odds with the workings of the worlds they inhabit, the character of Fogg represents a turning point for Auster. Indeed, Fogg’s former roommate, David Zimmer, the protagonist of Auster’s 2002 novel The Book of Illusions,

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appears detached from his environment, and his existence seems limited in the extreme. The Book of Illusions, written in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 destruction of New York City’s landmark Twin Towers, opens with the deaths in an airplane crash of Zimmer’s wife and children. Here, Auster explores the impact of grief and devastation. In his later writings, Auster recognizes his own mortality, and appears attuned to the precarious nature of contemporary life, with death considered the only definitive certainty. As a consequence, Auster’s skeptical postmodern narratives reinforce the everpresent intrusion of the unpredictable, and formulate an increasingly bleak and negative worldview.

Chapter Four

Dislocation, Ambiguity, Indeterminacy: The Postmodernity of The New York Trilogy

In the fourth chapter of this book, I will turn my attention to Paul Auster’s The New York Trilogy. The intricate structure of the trilogy, the inclusion of a story within a story, and the characterization of a Brooklyn-based writer named Paul Auster, all adhere to the obvious tenets of literary postmodernism. The New York Trilogy comprises three short novels: City of Glass, Ghosts, and The Locked Room. Comparable to Auster’s later writings, his triptych investigates the status of the author, the plight of the individual, and the relationships between fathers and sons. In each novel, a writer immerses himself in the remit of a selfobsessed quest to locate his enigmatic alter ego. These covert surveillance activities prove misguided however, and in the end, the protagonist of each novel suffers as a consequence of his interaction with his adversarial duplicate. In City of Glass, Auster borrows the name William Wilson from Edgar Allan Poe’s story that deals with döppelgangers and duality. As such, Auster comments upon the configuration of The New York Trilogy as a whole. In each installment of the trilogy, Auster ensures that the lack of cognitive certainty, associated with unstable and multiple narrative perspectives, contributes towards an ambiguous and indeterminate reading of the novels. In the preceding chapters of this book, I investigated Auster’s postmodernity in relation to his later writings. Auster’s postmodern worldview encompasses an overwhelming lack of cognitive certainty, foundational indeterminacy, ontological skepticism, and the open play of story. Auster suggests that the world he inhabits is largely inexplicable. Indeed for Auster, the contingent occurrence is a constant and intrusive presence in human existence. If life is wholly random, then notions of fate and destiny seem no longer relevant. In my fifth chapter, I explore Auster’s conception of the postmodern metropolis as exemplified by New York City. Auster comments upon the degree of duality evident within his hometown, and his representation promotes a view that the city is both a restrictive arena, as well as the site 103

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of spiritual redemption. Auster’s relationship with his late father determines the subject matter of many of his writings, and his literary universe is populated with döppelgangers and versions of the same character. As has been illustrated in the earlier chapters of this book, this evident degree of duality contributes towards thorough skepticism and ambiguity. Another staple of Auster’s literary project is the theme of self-invention. Auster incorporates elements from his life within his fictional narratives, and as such, constructs fictions based upon his own experiences. The predominance of Auster prototypes, therefore, calls into question the veracity of Auster’s writings. For the purposes of this chapter, I will trace the relationship between The New York Trilogy and Auster’s other writings. I will examine Auster’s evocation of urban dislocation in relation to City of Glass. Daniel Quinn, the novel’s protagonist, feels misplaced within the confines of New York City. Indeed the metropolis itself ultimately reinforces Quinn’s overwhelming sensation of incomprehension. In Ghosts, Blue is hired to watch Black, but over time discovers that his existence mirrors that of the elusive Black. As the theme of duality dominates in Ghosts, the detective Blue is faced with a fragmented and ambiguous mystery. The notion of self-invention is evident in The Locked Room. The novel’s unnamed narrator attempts to assume the identity of his disappeared friend, Fanshawe. Fanshawe is an author, and produces a series of poems collected together under the title, Ground Work. Fanshawe’s sister Ellen is diagnosed as schizophrenic. Paul Auster’s own sister named Ellen suffers from mental illness, and Auster himself is the author of a collection of poems and essays entitled Ground Work. Therefore, Auster’s reader can assume that Fanshawe is a version of Auster. This analysis proves problematic, however, and it appears that the Auster duplicate is actually the unnamed narrator of The Locked Room. I Auster’s first published novel is City of Glass. As Auster alludes to the facade of the skyscrapers found within New York City, his choice of title ostensibly appears to suggest a transparent terrain abundant with unlimited possibilities. As the novel progresses, however, Auster subverts this view of his hometown, and in Auster’s New York City, individuals are reflected and duplicated. This degree of duality ensures that identity is fractured, unstable, and easily discarded. Any semblance of selfhood becomes untenable within the city, and Auster’s characters adopt a variety of guises and personae. Although this is a ‘City of Glass,’ Auster intimates that the city is an arena in which nothing is visible. Auster reinforces a belief that cognitive certainty is for the most part

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unachievable, and thoughts, actions and intentions remain shrouded in mystery. For Auster, New York City has been transformed into an impenetrable and restrictive site of misery and dislocation. The effects of life in a contemporary and largely indifferent urban terrain are emphasized, as individuals seem inattentive to both their interaction with others, as well as the physical locale in which they find themselves. Similarly, the sheer volume of populace evident within the city ensures that individuals can be both abandoned and assimilated. As these disappearances go largely unnoticed, Auster comments upon the predicament of New York City’s destitute and homeless population. Indeed, during the course of City of Glass, Daniel Quinn, himself a vagrant, details the activities of those he encounters on the streets. Quinn’s wife and child died some five years before the events depicted in City of Glass, and Quinn has become introverted and isolated. Quinn is a self-enforced exile from society, and his ‘disappearance’ has been largely overlooked. The outside world appears oppressive and remote, and Quinn has withdrawn into the restrictive confines of his apartment. Quinn embraces the solitude associated with his life, however, and since his bereavement, his interaction with others has become peripheral in the extreme. Quinn is motivated by grief and inertia, and is ambivalent towards his sense of selfhood: He no longer wished to be dead. At the same time, it cannot be said that he was glad to be alive. But at least he did not resent it. He was alive, and the stubbornness of this fact had little by little begun to fascinate him—as if he had managed to outlive himself, as if he were somehow living a posthumous life1.

The deaths of Quinn’s wife and son ensure that Quinn himself exhibits a nihilistic death wish. Although Quinn survives, he remains irrecoverably distanced from the psyche of the man who was Daniel Quinn. As Quinn struggles to immerse himself in the practicalities of his existence, he adopts the identity of his literary pseudonym, William Wilson. For Quinn, however, this shift of persona is far from straightforward. While Quinn as Wilson gains recognition as an author, the reclusive Wilson is merely a literary device to encourage Quinn’s creativity. Although Quinn writes from the perspective of Wilson, it is actually Max Work, the protagonist of Wilson’s detective novels, with whom Quinn empathizes. It is through the persona of Work, then, that Quinn is able to communicate his intentions: Work continued to live in the world of others, and the more Quinn seemed to vanish, the more persistent Work’s presence in that world

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Quinn adopts the personae of Wilson and Work, and his sense of identity is doubly compromised. As Quinn moves from one adopted role to another, he strives to counteract his sense of powerlessness and ineptitude. Quinn’s existence, however, like that of his fictional counterparts, becomes determined solely by the confines of the literary form. Indeed, as Quinn states the reasons that he writes detective novels, he inadvertently comments upon his own sense of dislocation: “What interested him about the stories he wrote was not their relation to the world but their relation to other stories”3. As City of Glass opens, the already dislocated Quinn assumes yet another identity. Quinn receives a telephone call intended for a detective named Paul Auster, and informs the caller that he is Auster. Quinn’s existence seems restricted in the extreme, and he believed that he could masquerade as Max Work. Quinn craves adventure, and the adopted moniker of Auster provides Quinn with his sought after role of private investigator. As Quinn immerses himself in this new character, he eradicates any vestiges of his former existence: Although he still had the same body, the same mind, the same thoughts, he felt as though he had somehow been taken out of himself, as if he no longer had to walk around with the burden of his own consciousness4.

Quinn’s naivety and lack of knowledge is emphasized however, and the narrator of City of Glass intimates that Quinn is misguided. Quinn’s impromptu decision to impersonate Auster is symptomatic of his loss of selfhood. Quinn believes that in his new role as Auster, he can instigate change and guarantee an ordered world in which mysteries are solved and misdemeanors are punished: The fact that there was now a purpose to his being Paul Auster—a purpose that was becoming more and more important to him—served as a kind of moral justification for the charade and absolved him of having to defend his lie. For imagining himself as Auster had become synonymous in his mind with doing good in the world5.

As his surveillance mission intensifies, Quinn comes to realization that detective work is beyond him, and that the remit of the Stillman case bears little resemblance to any story that Quinn has ever read, or indeed, written.

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Quinn’s assignment involves the surveillance of the recently paroled Peter Stillman, who returns to New York City after a prolonged period of incarceration. Stillman is a deranged academic, and he wishes to discover the origins of language. Stillman had previously denied his son, who is also named Peter, access to human contact. The younger Stillman was trapped in a locked room during his formative years. In Stillman’s opinion, to subject his son to such a level of sensory deprivation, should guarantee that the latter would speak a pure and uncorrupted language. As an undergraduate student, Stillman conducted a theological study on the life of a seventeenth century clergyman named Henry Dark. Like Quinn, Stillman resorts to self-invention during the course of his thesis, and it is in the guise of the fictional Dark that Stillman promulgates his own warped hypothesis. In The New Babel, Dark laments the destruction of the Tower of Babel in the Old Testament Book of Genesis. Dark conducts meticulous research and declares that the Tower of Babel will be reconstructed in 1960. Dark insists that the New World is the arena in which such a phenomenon will occur, and associates the United States of America with progress, enlightenment and religious toleration. It is this country, then, that comes to embody Dark’s idealistic beliefs in relation to the New World: For the city of Babel—or Babylon—was situated in Mesopotamia, far east of the land of the Hebrews. If Babel lay to the west of anything, it was Eden, the original site of mankind . . . And what more Western land in all Christendom, Dark asked, than America? The movement of English settlers to the New World, therefore, could be read as the fulfilment of the ancient commandment. America was the last step in the process. Once the continent had been filled, the moment would be ripe for a change in the fortunes of mankind6.

Dark develops his argument, and celebrates the fact that the construction process will ensure that communities are no longer divided. As all sections of society, irrespective of racial or cultural allegiances, speak the same language, they will inevitably be brought ever closer to the prospect of spiritual renewal and redemption. Dark details the construction of this monolithic configuration: . . . the new Babel would begin to go up, its very shape aspiring toward the heavens, a symbol of the resurrection of the human spirit. History would be written in reverse. What had fallen would be raised up; what had been broken would be made whole. Once completed,

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As Auster critiques the mindset of contemporary America in City of Glass, he subverts Dark’s over-optimistic hypothesis. Indeed for Auster, the universal language evident within the American continent is that of commerce and capitalism. Stillman ventures to New York City, which he believes is the epitome of America itself. His assertion that the construction of a massive, multiple-layered tower will occur in the New World appears to correspond to both the numerous skyscrapers in New York City, as well as the diverse ethnic backgrounds of its inhabitants. Stillman may allude to New York City’s now obliterated World Trade Center, and it would seem that this is the type of infrastructure to which he refers. Within contemporary America, and in particular in the financial district of New York City, ethnic diversity is ignored in favor of the acquisition of profits that will guarantee further investment and expansion for the nation as a whole. Thus Stillman’s concept of deity becomes equated with the American dollar, and his undiluted and original form of language is corrupted and tarnished. Auster’s critique of New York City is comparable to the viewpoint expressed by Marshall Berman in “Looking at our City.” Berman refers to the rise of corporatism and technological advances associated with the 1980s and the policies advocated by Ronald Reagan’s government, and claims that New York City has become “a place where capital from anywhere in the world is instantly at home, while everybody without capital is increasingly out of place”8. It is not surprising therefore, that Quinn, who is estranged from the forces of capitalism, undergoes an intense period of isolation. Quinn’s powerlessness is further emphasized as he attempts to return to his former existence, to discover that he has been unceremoniously evicted from his apartment. Quinn’s lack of capital becomes manifest as his possessions have been discarded and destroyed. Thus Quinn has been relegated to the position of a vagrant, and faces a bleak and indeterminate future: “He had come to the end of himself. He could feel it now, as though a great truth had finally dawned in him. There was nothing left”9. New York City is popularly known as the ‘Big Apple.’ This designation reinforces Dark’s conception of the New World and its relationship to the tree of knowledge in the Biblical Garden of Eden. The notion of paradise itself is further subverted, however, as Eden is now an arena in which greed and material advancement have come to the fore. As Quinn attempts to unearth

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some form of definitive certainty, knowledge appears to have little relevance in this environment. Furthermore, as Dark refers to the city of Babylon in the Old Testament, Auster reinforces his condemnation of the forces at play within his hometown. As opposed to the site of spiritual renewal, Auster’s New York City is exposed as impersonal, closed and fraudulent. Auster employs obvious postmodern literary devices within City of Glass. His depiction of a tainted and mercantile urban terrain, however, ensures that City of Glass can be compared to Auster’s more overtly political novels, most notably Moon Palace and Leviathan. Indeed, in Leviathan, Benjamin Sachs writes a novel named The New Colossus. While Sachs alludes to New York City’s Statue of Liberty, he indirectly comments upon Dark’s visualization of a future labyrinthine edifice. From the outset, Quinn states that, as he explores the streets of his hometown on a daily basis, he experiences a sensation of displacement. Quinn believes that the immense arrangement of the city contributes towards this overwhelming sentiment of dislocation: 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 neighbourhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost. Lost, not only in the city, but within himself as well10.

Despite Quinn’s apprehension with regard to the gargantuan metropolis, he simultaneously welcomes the degree of anonymity that the city encourages. Quinn actively seeks to distance himself from tangible reality. As such, the streets of New York City are the perfect terrain in which Quinn’s metaphysical disappearance will become manifest: On his best walks, he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally, was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere. New York was the nowhere he had built around himself, and he realized that he had no intention of ever leaving it again11.

Quinn’s passivity is coupled with abject misery, and he wholeheartedly surrenders to the chaotic ethos of his hometown. In the postmodern metropolis, Quinn becomes an observer rather than an active participant, and his daily constitutionals appear governed by the logic of an inanimate structure: Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation

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Like Quinn, Stillman indulges in excursions around the vicinity of New York City. Stillman celebrates the evident degree of fragmentation and decay, and claims that the city is a site of untold devastation: “I find the streets an endless source of material, an inexhaustible storehouse of shattered things”13. Stillman remains committed to the creation and development of languages, and his intention is to rename objects that have been damaged and discarded, and which have outlived their usefulness. Quinn follows Stillman and struggles to articulate a coherent hypothesis. As he records Stillman’s apparent arbitrary footsteps, Quinn initially believes that he has “ . . . embarked on a meaningless project”14. Quinn cannot be certain that there is method in Stillman’s madness, and his thoughts in relation to Stillman’s actions indicate Quinn’s level of incomprehension, as well as a desire for much needed resolution: It seemed to him that he was looking for a sign. He was ransacking the chaos of Stillman’s movements for some glimmer of cogency. This implied only one thing: that he continued to disbelieve the arbitrariness of Stillman’s actions. He wanted there to be a sense to them, no matter how obscure15.

Quinn continues to search for verifiability, and he makes sketches of the routes that Stillman has taken. Quinn’s skepticism appears accurate, however, as the nine diagrams correspond to letters of the alphabet: “OWEROFBAB”16. Quinn predicts that Stillman intends to spell out the words ‘the Tower of Babel.’ Thus Stillman reiterates the viewpoint expressed in Dark’s thesis, and critiques both the architecture and the cultural mix evident within contemporary New York City. While Quinn cannot be certain that this is indeed Stillman’s modus operandi, he has become immersed in the conventions of detective fiction to such an extent that he assumes that this is the only logical solution: “The whole thing was so oblique, so fiendish in its circumstances, that he did not want to accept it”17. Quinn recalls Stillman’s attempts at the creation of a new language, and assumes that Stillman wishes to commit some as yet unknown malignant crime. However, Quinn stresses the fact that he cannot ascertain a degree of clarity: “The letters were not letters at all. He had seen them only because he had wanted to see them”18. Indeed, Stillman’s

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nefarious letters appear to have no foundation in reality, and exist solely in the realm of the written form: “And yet, the pictures did exist—not in the streets where they had been drawn, but in Quinn’s red notebook”19. Quinn’s hypothesis immediately becomes suspect however. Quinn assumes that Stillman will complete his assignment, yet does not reveal whether this is the case or not. Similarly, Quinn seems to ignore the culmination of Stillman’s master plan, and initiates contact with the old man. Thus Quinn indicates that he remains governed by the constraints of the principle of cause and effect evident within detective novels. Quinn imposes his limited knowledge of fictional detective novels to the Stillman case, and discovers that his ontological certainties are further eroded. Stillman’s haphazard ramble through the streets of New York City ensures that Quinn’s movements are controlled in the extreme: “ . . . all this starting and stopping and shuffling began to be a strain, as though the rhythm of his body was being disrupted”20. Quinn seeks reassurance and searches for the possibility of a profound meaning concealed within the logic of Stillman’s meander. Quinn ignores his own prior random movements, however, and Quinn’s excursions within the city serve as a precursor for the constrictive routine that Stillman will impose. Indeed in his walks Quinn negates responsibility, and his eventual destination is governed by the design of the streets, as opposed to calculated intention on his part: Motion was of the essence, the act of putting one foot in front of the other and allowing himself to follow the drift of his own body. By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was21.

Stillman is revealed to be a duplicate of Quinn, and the rhetoric that Stillman employs in his journey through New York City seems inspired by Quinn’s own desire for escape and obliteration. As Quinn struggles to enforce a carefully constructed semblance of order onto Stillman’s actions, he fails to realize that perhaps the latter’s movements are not determined by the logic of some meticulous master plan. The narrator of City of Glass asserts that Quinn is flawed, and indeed, Quinn had previously referred to “ . . . the quadrant structure of New York’s streets”22. With this factor taken into account, it can be argued that Stillman follows a pattern that has been imposed by outside forces, namely those responsible for the grid like design of the streets in Manhattan. It may be the case that Stillman, and as a consequence Quinn, is controlled by a force that has no relevance to Quinn’s narrative. In New York Fictions: Modernism, Postmodernism, The New Modern, Peter Brooker suggests that the layout of New

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York City reinforces the fact that this arena is representative of a decentered postmodern environment. Brooker states that the meticulous configuration evident within the city promotes and encourages, “ . . . a palimpsest of densely packed change and differentiation upon the city’s graph-paper page”23. In City of Glass, Auster highlights the uniformity evident within the streets of his hometown, and critiques the mindset of those who attempt to enforce a semblance of order onto an inanimate structure. The city planners create order from chaos with their routinely parallel streets. Their aspirations are comparable to the actions of Stillman and Quinn therefore. While Stillman wishes to structure his son’s words, Quinn attempts to control and explain Stillman’s footsteps. Similarly, as ultimately Auster himself dictates Stillman’s actions, Auster makes an analogy between the intricate grid structure and the complex processes involved in authorship and in the construction of The New York Trilogy. Quinn’s authorial intention is evident in his interaction with Stillman. Quinn engages in word play with Stillman, and assumes three different roles in the course of the pair’s successive encounters. Quinn, who masquerades as Auster, informs Stillman that he is Daniel Quinn, Henry Dark, and finally, Peter Stillman. Stillman himself seems oblivious to his counterpart’s “costume changes,” and his inattentiveness appears symptomatic of his eventual disappearance, and subsequent suicide. Quinn remains perplexed by Stillman’s apparent indifference, and continues to believe that Stillman and he are kindred spirits engaged in a game of cat and mouse. Stillman’s disappearance therefore comes as a blow to Quinn, and Quinn laments the fact that his mission appears irrecoverably aborted: Stillman was gone now. The old man had become part of the city. He was a speck, a punctuation mark, a brick in an endless wall of bricks. Quinn could walk through the streets every day for the rest of his life, and still he would not find him. Everything had been reduced to chance, a nightmare of numbers and probabilities24.

Quinn again reveals his preoccupation with the conventions of fiction, and appears oblivious to the fact that, since its inception, the Stillman case has been determined by the logic of the forces of contingency. Quinn responds to a telephone call intended for someone else. Similarly, in his initial surveillance mission at Grand Central Station, Quinn encounters both Stillman and his supposed döppelganger: His face was the exact twin of Stillman’s. For a second Quinn thought it was an illusion, a kind of aura thrown off by the electromagnetic cur-

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rents in Stillman’s body. But no, this other Stillman moved, breathed, blinked his eyes; his actions were clearly independent of the first Stillman25.

With the introduction of Stillman’s döppelganger, Quinn is forced to confront the overall random nature of his assignment. Quinn is perplexed by the appearance of another Stillman, and is unsure as to which of the men he should follow. As his preordained certainties are challenged, Quinn suggests that this will not be a conventional detective case. Rather than cognizance and certainty, Quinn is forced to adhere to an uncertain and contingent decision: “Whatever choice he made—and he had to make a choice—would be arbitrary, a submission to chance”26. Quinn opts for the first Stillman, and as such his subsequent actions are determined by this haphazard judgment. Immediately prior to this unexpected encounter, Quinn comments upon the flow of human traffic that passes through Grand Central Station on a daily basis. Quinn is overwhelmed by the density of numbers, as well as the multiracial diversity, and marvels at the unique configuration of the individual human face: “ . . . each one different from all the others, each one irreducibly himself ”27. Quinn’s opinions here echo the sentiment expressed by Auster in his celebration of the heterogeneous mix evident within contemporary New York City in “Underground.” However, as Auster highlights the sheer volume of populace evident within an urban environment such as New York City, he simultaneously reiterates the viewpoint expressed in The Red Notebook. In his excursion to Grand Central Station, Auster’s friend R. is mysteriously presented with an obscure book that he has attempted to locate. Therefore, Auster insists that life appears random and largely inexplicable. As such, Auster suggests that it is entirely possible for two individuals who look the same to exist simultaneously in one place. Moreover, both Stillmans reinforce Auster’s expose of the degree of anonymity associated with an urban population centre, and as Quinn observes, he is powerless to prevent the untraceable escape of one or other of the men. Through his interaction with the first Stillman, Quinn realizes that he is merely a novice at detective work, and his incompetence ensures that he loses Stillman and his döppelganger. Quinn intimates that disappearances are an ever-present facet of life in the metropolis: Quinn made a tour of the numbered gates, looking for hidden staircases, unmarked exits, dark alcoves. He concluded that a man determined to disappear could do so without much trouble28.

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For Quinn, the lack of connection evident within his hometown reinforces his belief that unaccountable disappearances are paramount. By the close of City of Glass, Quinn loses all contact with Stillman and his duplicate, as well as Stillman’s son, who mysteriously vanishes during the course of Quinn’s assignment. It may be the case that the younger Stillman leaves New York City after his father’s suicide. Quinn however, believes that Stillman’s son remains ensconced within the safety of his apartment. As such, Quinn embarks upon the surveillance of the apartment, and lives in an adjoining alleyway for a period of months. Quinn subjects himself to a strenuous and self-destructive routine during his enforced isolation, with interrupted periods of sleep and constant pangs of hunger. Quinn’s activities appear to go unnoticed, and the narrator of City of Glass states that Quinn has again become irrecoverably introverted. Like the object of his pursuit, Quinn eventually disappears, and the narrator cannot account for Quinn’s present whereabouts. Quinn’s absence from the narrative, then, implies that in contemporary New York City, individuals may vanish without trace. As Auster highlights the degree of anonymity associated with the city, he intimates that Quinn, like Stillman, has been forgotten, and is merely another of the numerous abandoned and displaced inhabitants of New York City. In City of Glass, Quinn documents the plight of New York City’s homeless population. As illustrated in the fifth chapter of this book, Auster returns to his investigation of this ignored underclass in his illustration of the postapocalyptic environment to which Anna Blume relocates in In the Country of Last Things. While dislocation and an overwhelming lack of coherent identity seem related to Blume’s status as a scavenger, in City of Glass Auster maintains that homelessness does not make such obvious and clear-cut distinctions. Indeed, as Quinn walks through the numerous streets within the borough of Manhattan, he notes that homelessness and dislocation appear the norm rather than the exception: Today, as never before: the tramps, the down-and-outs, the shoppingbag ladies, the drifters and drunks. They range from the merely destitute to the wretchedly broken. Wherever you turn, they are there, in good neighbourhoods and bad29.

Quinn notes that while some of the dispossessed retain vestiges of their former lives, the majority have abandoned all traces of respectability, and have surrendered to the constraints imposed by their new social status: “There are the ones who talk to themselves, who mutter, who scream, who curse, who groan, who tell themselves stories as if to someone else”30. Quinn observes

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the insane, lost and depleted masses jostle for position within an incoherent and displaced urban terrain. As such, Quinn laments the fact that this level of abandonment ensures that the aspirations of these forgotten individuals have been eradicated from the all-embracing national consciousness: Hulks of despair, clothed in rags, their faces bruised and bleeding, they shuffle through the streets as though in chains. Asleep in doorways, staggering insanely through traffic, collapsing on sidewalks—they seem to be everywhere the moment you look for them. Some will starve to death, others will die of exposure, still others will be beaten or burned or tortured31.

Quinn removes himself from the constraints imposed by the Stillman case, and instead depicts the lifestyle of this hidden underclass in American society. Thus Quinn pours scorn upon the concept of the ‘American Dream.’ As Quinn had appeared blinkered to the reality of his environment, it is Stillman’s disappearance that enables Quinn to concentrate upon the life experiences of other disparate individuals: “As it happened, he saw many things that day he had never noticed before”32. Quinn cannot provide a definitive reason for this sudden change of focus, and his observations seem related to a desire to reclaim his role as author: “He felt an urge to record certain facts, and he wanted to put them down on paper before he forgot them”33. Quinn’s decision, however, suggests that he has relinquished any involvement in the mystery, and symbolizes his recognition of his sense of selfhood. As Quinn’s thoughts in relation to the problem of homelessness in New York City preempt his subsequent desire to record the constant flux of the elements, Auster intimates that Quinn has gained a renewed level of self-awareness. The act of writing is removed from the artificial constraints of detective fiction, and becomes a political act of resistance and empowerment. Significantly, as Quinn moves from his position as a writer of detective novels to one who records the reality of life in a contemporary urban environment, he simultaneously frees himself from involvement in the Stillman case, and his role as a participant in the narrator’s constrictive narrative. In the fifth chapter of this book, I examine Auster’s conception of the postmodern metropolis, and suggest that Auster promotes a view that concentrates upon both the positive and negative connotations of his hometown. In City of Glass, Auster highlights the evident degree of dislocation associated with New York City, and it is this arena that serves as a backdrop to Quinn’s isolation and eventual disappearance. Therefore, this judgment appears to indicate that Auster views New York City as a bleak and barren

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environment, in which the rights of the individual have been eradicated in favor of the design of the system. However, the city depicted in City of Glass is fictional, and Auster focuses upon the worst elements of life in New York City in order to complement his postmodern narrative. Quinn experiences anonymity, homelessness and dislocation. While Auster intimates that New York City is an environment in which such phenomena are commonplace, he simultaneously asserts that these negative features are evident within any number of developed urban population centers. City of Glass was first published in 1985. There is no indication however that this is the time period in which the novel is set, and Quinn’s excursion through the city appears to correspond to an indeterminate time-frame. Similarly, as Auster stresses the fictional nature of Quinn’s narrative, it is the unnamed narrator of The Locked Room who is responsible for the construction of Quinn’s story. Through his interaction with the fictional Paul Auster, the narrator gains possession of Quinn’s red notebook. The notebook however is damaged, and in some places incoherent, and cannot be relied upon as an accurate account of Quinn’s activities. The fact that the narrator resorts to the process of storification is further emphasized with the closing lines of Quinn’s notebook: “What will happen when there are no more pages in the red notebook?”34 Thus it becomes evident that the narrator has concocted a fictional story based upon an individual named Daniel Quinn. As Quinn vanishes, it appears that the narrator has reached an impasse in the narrative, and his story is forced to come to an abrupt and indeterminate end: “As for Quinn, it is impossible for me to say where he is now”35. Moreover, as the three installments of The New York Trilogy merge, Quinn becomes a substitute for the narrator of The Locked Room, and Quinn’s name is borrowed from the private investigator that Sophie Fanshawe hires. Quinn’s predicament therefore matches that of the narrator, and his adoption of a variety of multiple personae echo the narrator’s own misguided attempts to assume the identity of the enigmatic Fanshawe. Similarly, Quinn’s dislocation and anonymity in relation to his environment appear related to the fact that Fanshawe himself becomes an anonymous presence hidden among the multitude of faces that inhabit the labyrinthine streets and avenues of New York City. II As has been illustrated in the preceding chapters of this book, döppelgangers appear as a constant presence in Auster’s writings. In my third chapter, I explored Auster’s relationship with his late father, and illustrated the inter-

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dependent link that existed between Samuel Auster and his brothers. I suggested that the relationships among the four brothers served as a basis for Auster’s view of a world in which duplicates are predominant. Auster’s son Daniel was born in 1977 and his father Samuel died in 1979. In “The Book of Memory,” the second book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster’s literary duplicate A. states that his father’s death ensures that A. now assumes this role. A’s assertion that he has become his own father, echoes the sentiment expressed by the elder Peter Stillman in City of Glass. Prior to his suicide, Stillman emphasizes the transient nature of human life, with each individual unable to combat the passing of time and the inevitability of death: “Time makes us grow old, but it also gives us the day and the night. And when we die, there is always someone to take our place”36. A. nostalgically recalls his childhood, and memories of past events ensure that he relives these occasions. As A. contemplates the unparalleled power of memory, he marvels at the fact that he can exist simultaneously within two realms: Inexplicably, he finds himself shaking at that moment with both happiness and sorrow, if this is possible, as if he were going both forward and backward, into the future and into the past. And there are times, often there are times, when these feelings are so strong that his life no longer seems to dwell in the present37.

A. reinforces Auster’s conception of an ever-present predominance of duality, and refers to the date of his son’s birth and the associated astrological connotations: June twelfth. Under the sign of Gemini. An image of the twins. A world in which everything is double, in which the same thing always happens twice. Memory: the space in which a thing happens for the second time38.

In “S.A. 1911–1979,” Auster illustrates his reaction to his father’s sudden death, a topic that will be addressed fully in “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude. In Ghosts, the second installment of The New York Trilogy, Auster translates his concerns to fiction, and the degree of duality associated with father and son relationships serves as a backdrop to the novel as a whole. Blue, the protagonist of Ghosts, mourns the murder of his policeman father, and resorts to memory in an attempt to reanimate his father’s existence: “He can see himself holding his father’s hand and walking at his side”39. In his childhood, Blue and his father

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would walk across New York City’s Brooklyn Bridge, and it is this structure, which Blue associates with his late father: The old man was born the same year the bridge was finished, and there was always that link in Blue’s mind, as though the bridge were somehow a monument to his father40.

Comparable to A. in “The Book of Memory,” Blue strives to compensate for his father’s absence. As such, Blue becomes obsessed with a variety of narratives that deal with father and son relationships, and refers to a curious story in a magazine named Stranger than Fiction. This anecdotal tale would not be out of place in Auster’s evocation of the inexplicable nature of human existence, as illustrated in The Red Notebook and Why Write? Blue memorizes the detail of this arbitrary incident, in which a skier, whose father had died in an avalanche many years earlier, comes across a body frozen in the ice. The block of ice acts as a mirror, and the skier believes that he sees his own reflection. Thus the corpse, who is actually the skier’s dead father, is revealed to be a younger version, as well as a duplicate of his son: . . . as he bent down and looked at the face of the corpse, he had the distinct and terrifying impression that he was looking at himself. Trembling with fear . . . he inspected the body more closely, all sealed away as it was in the ice, like someone on the other side of a thick window, and saw that it was his father. The dead man was still young, even younger than his son was now, and there was something awesome about it, Blue felt, something so odd and terrible about being older than your own father41.

Auster worked as a translator before publication of The New York Trilogy, and it appears that this early career choice has contributed to his assessment of the degree of duality associated with authorship and the act of reading. Auster’s choice of title for the second installment of the trilogy, moreover, seems related to the fact that his erstwhile occupation has influenced the plot and subject matter of Ghosts. In his writings Auster promotes the solitary nature of the compositional process, and the writer’s subsequent desire for solitude: Every book is an image of solitude. It is a tangible object that one can pick up, put down, open, and close, and its words represent many months, if not many years, of one man’s solitude, so that with each

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word one reads in a book one might say to himself that he is confronting a particle of that solitude. A man sits alone in a room and writes. Whether the book speaks of loneliness or companionship, it is necessarily a product of solitude42.

In his writings Auster suggests that it is impossible to inhabit the consciousness of another. As such, Auster reinforces a belief that widespread connection with society at large is problematic. In “The Book of Memory,” however, the fictive A., himself a duplicate of Auster, asserts that he can invade another individual’s solitude. While the persona of A. enables Auster to communicate his thoughts and opinions, A. is not an independent individual, and he and Auster exist simultaneously in the same place and at the same time. Similarly, as A. translates another person’s book, A. and the original author become inextricably joined in an otherwise solitary activity: A. sits down in his own room to translate another man’s book, and it is though he were entering that man’s solitude and making it his own. But surely that is impossible. For once a solitude has been breached, once a solitude has been taken on by another, it is no longer solitude, but a kind of companionship. Even though there is only one man in the room, there are two. A. imagines himself as a kind of ghost of that other man, who is both there and not there, and whose book is both the same and not the same as the one he is translating. Therefore, he tells himself, it is possible to be alone and not alone at the same moment43.

In “The Book of Memory,” Auster struggles to write an autobiographical memoir, and instead resorts to the persona of the other. It is this degree of separation that enables Auster to discover the forces that have shaped him as an individual. In Ghosts, Blue compiles reports that detail the activities of his nemesis, Black. Blue embarks upon the process of composition and constructs Black’s biography. Comparable to Auster’s adoption of his literary pseudonym and subsequent level of self-awareness, it is the act of writing about another individual that enables Blue to discover his own sense of selfhood. Auster’s world is one in which duality is commonplace, however, and Blue, like Auster, writes his own autobiography. While A. is a literary persona that Auster employs, and is in fact an extension of Auster, there appears to be very little distinction between Blue and Black. Blue decorates his apartment wall with pictures of his late father, as well as magazine cuttings of the dead skier and John Roebling and his son Washington, the designers of the Brooklyn Bridge. Blue’s living quarters

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reinforce this overwhelming abundance of mirror images, and seem related to Auster’s conception of fatherhood as investigated in my third chapter. Another photograph that Blue attaches significance to, is that of a coroner named Gold, who relentlessly investigates a twenty-five year old and long forgotten murder of a young boy in Philadelphia. Blue suggests that, as the boy was never identified, one or either of his parents must have been the perpetrator. Gold, then, assumes the role of surrogate father to the boy, who is considered to be another duplicate for Blue. Blue stresses his close proximity in age to the boy, and draws comparisons between the murdered child and himself: “ . . . had the boy lived he would be Blue’s age now. It could have been me, Blue thinks. I could have been that little boy”44. From the outset, Auster establishes a definitive time period and location with Ghosts, which opens in New York City on February 3, 1947. On this same date and in another part of the city, Paul Auster was born. In Ghosts, a man named White hires a private detective named Blue, and Blue’s assignment is to observe an individual named Black. Blue is initially suspicious of White’s motivation, but immerses himself in the remit of his covert mission to the extent that he relinquishes all emotional attachments. Although Blue is involved in a relationship, he remains a perpetual outsider. Unlike the individuals that Blue encounters during the course of his assignment, his one-dimensional fiancée is not allocated a name or a specific color, and is referred to only as an appendage of Blue himself. Blue’s unnamed fiancée is not privy to his motivation, and is a figure firmly rooted in the past. Blue can concoct any number of diverse stories to explain Black’s actions, but is unable to devote any attention to his former life. Therefore Blue cannot write the life story of his fiancée: “If he is able to invent a multitude of stories to fit the facts concerning Black, with the future Mrs Blue all is silence, confusion, and emptiness”45. Blue has experienced a variety of complex cases, and each assignment involved a degree of intrigue, and an inevitable and triumphant end-product. Blue believes that the surveillance of Black will not be dissimilar, and assumes that his employer White is a jealous husband who wishes to have Black followed. This tendency in Blue seems indicative of his devotion to his employment. Blue reveals that he is blinkered to the practicalities of his environment, and struggles to accept a world that is largely devoid of coherent order and cognitive certainty: He has moved rapidly along the surface of things for as long as he can remember, fixing his attention on these surfaces only in order to perceive them, sizing one up and then passing on to the next, and he has

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always taken pleasure in the world as such, asking no more of things than that they be there46.

As his surveillance mission intensifies, Blue’s preconceived expectations are irrecoverably subverted. Blue craves action and adventure, yet he is forced to sit in a room and observe the ostensibly mundane routine of his nemesis, Black: They have trapped Blue into doing nothing, into being so inactive as to reduce his life to almost no life at all . . . He feels like a man who has been condemned to sit in a room and go on reading a book for the rest of his life47.

The isolated Blue reverts inwards and becomes nostalgic, yet is simultaneously consumed by loneliness. Thus Blue turns from a man of action into one who becomes lost within the depths of his own solitude. Blue’s predicament and environment determine all of his subsequent actions, and ensure that he remains ostracized and alone: “That’s what happens when you have no one to talk to”48. Blue notices the similarities that abound between his existence and that of Black, and over time Blue concedes that he actually records his own restrictive and regimented lifestyle. Auster subverts the tenets of detective fiction in Ghosts, and the detective Blue murders Black, and triumphantly retrieves the pages of the manuscript. Thus Blue escapes from the confines of the mystery, as well as the omnipotent and unnamed narrator’s narrative. Blue’s whereabouts remain shrouded in secrecy, and the narrator concocts an optimistic future for his protagonist. The narrator’s uncertainty is emphasized, however, and comparable to Daniel Quinn in City of Glass, Blue mysteriously disappears at the end of the novel. Blue’s future therefore becomes indeterminate: “And from this moment on, we know nothing”49. Auster emulates the conventions of hard-boiled American detective fiction and Hollywood film noir in Ghosts, and Blue compares himself to the character of Jeff Bailey in Jacques Tourneur’s 1947 film noir Out of the Past. Blue states that Bailey wishes to achieve some semblance of normalcy and redemption: “His ambition was simple enough: to become a normal citizen in a normal American town, to marry the girl next door, to live a quiet life”50. Blue intimates that he has similar desires, yet his decision not to contact his fiancée ensures that he, like the character of Bailey, is an outcast from society, and any attempts at conventionality are beyond him. In the final scene of Out of the Past, the girl next door returns to her former boyfriend and a life of respectability. In Ghosts, this montage is repeated immediately after Blue’s

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musings in relation to Out of the Past. Blue encounters his former fiancée and her new partner, and realizes that he is destined to remain a perpetual outsider: He has lost whatever chance he might have had for happiness, and if that is the case, then it would not be wrong to say that this is truly the beginning of the end51.

As both characters and incidents are duplicated in Ghosts, Blue’s interaction with his former fiancée is mirrored during the encounter between Black and the woman in the restaurant. Black and the woman appear to be lovers, and their meeting signifies the end of their relationship. Blue welcomes the woman’s presence, and believes that he has been accurate in his assessment of the logic of the case. As Blue’s naivety becomes apparent, the narrator stresses the fact that Blue places an unwarranted faith in the power of words: Blue is already imagining the kinds of things he will write in his next report, and it gives him pleasure to contemplate the phrases he will use to describe what he is seeing now52.

In Out of the Past, Bailey becomes romantically involved with a femme fatale. The ramifications of this relationship ensure that Bailey will die a violent death. Bailey is actually a pseudonym adopted by the private investigator, and his true identity is indicative of the fact that he is doomed to restlessness and resignation: “His real name is Markham—or, as Blue sounds it out to himself, mark him”53. Blue draws parallels between Markham and himself, and believes that this name is synonymous with the activities involved in Blue’s observation of Black: Blue begins to be haunted by this thought, for he sees it as a kind of warning, a message delivered up from within himself, and try as he does to push it away, the darkness of this thought does not leave him54.

Blue believes that he is always one step ahead of his opponent. The reality of the situation is quite different, however, and it is Black who is actually in possession of the facts in relation to the assignment. Black seems attuned to the fact that Blue has adopted a variety of disguises during their encounters, and while Blue poses as an insurance salesman named Snow, Black mocks Blue’s activities. Black, who had previously masqueraded as White, states that he is a private detective involved in a surveillance case. Blue’s reaction is

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to remain stationary, however, and indeed Blue seems unable to counteract the machinations of his duplicate. Black again reveals that he controls Blue’s involuntary actions, and claims to understand the man whom he observes to the extent that he can anticipate every movement that the latter will make: I’ve been watching him for so long now that I know him better than I know myself. All I have to do is think about him, and I know what he’s doing, I know where he is, I know everything. It’s come to the point that I can watch him with my eyes closed55.

This assertion seems related to the fact that Black has controlled the case since its inception. Blue will continue to pursue Black, and therefore Blue remains the observer. The relationship between Blue and Black is one of mutual dependency, and as the case progresses, it appears that neither can survive without the other. In the final explosive encounter between the pair, Black indicates that this is indeed the case. Black maintains that he has been privy to the logic of Blue’s covert activities, and as such the duplicates remain inextricably linked: Every time I looked up, you were there, watching me, following me, always in sight, boring into me with your eyes. You were the whole world to me, Blue, and I turned you into my death. You’re the one thing that doesn’t change, the one thing that turns everything inside out56.

Blue’s continual presence reinforces the bond that exists between him and Black. Black intends to kill Blue, and subsequently take his own life. Black alludes to the self-destructive relationship between döppelgangers as illustrated in Edgar Allan Poe’s “William Wilson,” and insists that Blue and he must die simultaneously: “It’s going to be the two of us together, just like always”57. Blue’s realization is coupled with a renewed level of self-awareness, and rather than succumb to Black’s intentions, Blue finally seizes control. Blue unleashes a violent attack against his nemesis, and Black is left bruised and inert: “If he’s alive now, Blue thinks, it won’t be for long. And if he’s dead, then so be it”58. This act of violence serves as motivation for Blue to reclaim his sense of selfhood. As Blue abandons his involvement in this relationship of unhealthy co-dependency, he is at last able to escape from the constraints of his former existence, as well as the narrative confines imposed by the narrator of The Locked Room. However, it may be the case that Black is indeed accurate, and Blue cannot survive without his alter ego. As such, Blue’s disappearance appears reflective of the fact that Blue himself has no

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independent identity, and therefore does not have a story of his own to tell. The narrator constructs a narrative based around döppelgangers, and the fate of Black ensures that the narrator has indeed reached an impasse, and cannot provide a coherent future for the singular and isolated Blue: Where he goes after that is not important. For we must remember that all of this took place more than thirty years ago, back in the days of our earliest childhood. Anything is possible, therefore59.

Blue must adhere to verifiability as he compiles reports for his employer White. Blue can record Black’s movements, but must not offer his own analysis or any degree of speculation. His reports are viewed as stagnant documents that are ultimately controlled by the desires of White rather than Blue: His method is to stick to outward facts, describing events as though each word tallied exactly with the thing described, and to question the matter no further. Words are transparent for him, great windows that stand between him and the world, and until now they have never impeded his view, have never even seemed to be there60.

Blue is perturbed at the restrictive nature of the Black case, and believes that he cannot articulate any form of definitive certainty. In order to compensate for the sterile nature of his reports, Blue resorts to the process of storification, and invents a series of possible, and sometimes outlandish scenarios that will explain the enigma that is Black. Rather than achieve clarity, however, Blue employs the written form as a means to counteract his own isolation, with Black viewed as Blue’s constant companion in solitude. Therefore Black’s imagined crimes become more significant than the actual and stifled reality. Indeed, Blue notes that the detail of any of his stories may represent a profound clue and contribute towards his comprehension of the mysterious Black: “For Black is no more than a kind of blankness, a hole in the texture of things, and one story can fill this hole as well as any other”61. Blue accepts that the fantastical conventions of storytelling are not relevant to the case, and is forced to return to his reports. These reports however seem vague and incoherent, and Blue laments the inadequacy of the language he employs in an attempt to convey his intentions: For the first time in his experience of writing reports, he discovers that words do not necessarily work, that it is possible for them to obscure the things they are trying to say62.

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In the opening chapter of this book, I explore Samuel Beckett’s conception of the impossibility of language, and suggest that Auster emulates Beckett’s stance in the majority of his writings. Auster reiterates this sentiment in Ghosts, and Blue’s triumphant retrieval of his reports results in corresponding ambiguity and an overwhelming lack of cognitive certainty: There they are, one after the other, the weekly accounts, all spelled out in black and white, meaning nothing, saying nothing, as far from the truth of the case as silence would have been63.

Auster again subverts the established premises of detective fiction, and Blue’s attitude to the inadequacy and impossibility of language, ensures that he never fully grasps the practicalities of his assignment. In Ghosts, the principle of cause and effect evident within conventional detective novels is rendered irrecoverably null and void. The subject matter of Blue’s reports, moreover, reinforce Auster’s pastiche of the detective genre, and rather than any coherent sense of clarity, Blue is confronted with an ambiguous and unworkable collection of sentences, none of which relate to his continuous and arduous surveillance of Black. Blue’s overwhelming incomprehension, therefore, can be compared to the viewpoint expressed by Auster in his eulogy for his father, “S.A. 1911–1979.” As highlighted in the third chapter of this book, Auster searches for words that will depict the human sensations of grief, loss and the abrupt end of life. With the sudden death of his father, Auster asserts that although he can produce words that will articulate his emotions, the words once spoken by his father have been forever lost: To begin with this thought: without rhyme or reason. And then simply to wait. As if the first word comes only after the last, after a life of waiting for the word that was lost64

In “The Book of Memory,” Auster reiterates his conception of the inadequacy of language, and his words fail to convey his intentions. As such, Auster experiences writer’s block, and subsequently adopts the identity of his literary pseudonym, A. “The Book of Memory” opens with Auster’s inability to comprehend the meaning of the words that he has written:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity He writes until he has covered the entire page with words. Later, when he reads over what he has written, he has trouble deciphering the words. Those he does manage to understand do not seem to say what he thought he was saying65.

Blue’s incomprehension ensures that he misreads the facts of the Black case, and as the narrator of Ghosts suggests, if Blue had taken time to analyze his situation, he would have gained a thorough awareness of both himself and the elusive Black. Black reads Walden by the nineteenth-century ‘Transcendental’ author Henry David Thoreau, and Blue obtains a copy of the same book. Blue remains in detective mode, and assumes that there is some hidden meaning concealed in the fact that the publisher of his edition of Walden is named Walter J. Black. Although Blue accepts that the publisher’s name is purely coincidental, he continues to attempt to impose his own opinions upon the surveillance of Black. As such, Blue initially neglects to read Walden, and his eventual foray into Thoreau’s environment prompts Blue to believe that “ . . . he is entering an alien world”66. Blue ignores his own predicament and castigates Thoreau’s decision to embrace solitude. As such, Blue asserts that Walden is an incoherent, pointless and meaningless work: Blue thought that he was going to get a story, or at least have something like a story, but this is no more than blather, an endless harangue about nothing at all67.

As is the case with City of Glass, the voice of the narrator interjects into the narrative, and Blue’s response to Walden, is critiqued. The narrator seems sympathetic to Blue, and suggests that although Blue is misguided, the reader cannot apportion blame. The narrator details Blue’s reading habits: “Blue has never read much of anything except newspapers and magazines, and an occasional adventure novel when he was a boy”68. Thus the narrator asserts that Blue would not be in a position to comprehend the subject matter of Walden. Similarly, the narrator claims that Blue merely echoes the viewpoint expressed by some of Thoreau’s nineteenth century critics, Ralph Waldo Emerson included: “Emerson once wrote in his journal that reading Thoreau made him feel nervous and wretched”69. Blue attempts to read Walden on a second occasion, and gradually begins to understand the message contained within Thoreau’s argument: “Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written”70. It is at this point that Blue becomes distanced from the Black case. At the same time, Blue begins to achieve a semblance of clarity in relation to the overall nature of his assignment. Indeed, the narrator states

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that the message contained within Walden would be central to Blue’s coherent comprehension of himself, his environment, and the reality of his mission: What he does not know is that were he to find the patience to read the book in the spirit in which it asks to be read, his entire life would begin to change, and little by little he would come to a full understanding of his situation—that is to say, of Black, of White, of the case, of everything that concerns him. But lost chances are as much a part of life as chances taken, and a story cannot dwell on what might have been71.

In “Inventions of Solitude: Thoreau and Auster,” Mark Ford comments upon the ways in which Thoreau and Auster equate isolation with beneficial selfknowledge: “Both Thoreau and Auster are obsessively concerned with the powers of solitude to convert the socially induced anxieties of self-division into the creative forces of self-awareness”72. Blue’s assignment is to scrutinize and record Black’s every movement. Thus Black ensures that Blue is subjected to an enforced period of solitude, and as such, Blue must confront his own internal demons: For the first time in his life, he finds that he has been thrown back on himself, with nothing to grab hold of, nothing to distinguish one moment from the next. He had never given much thought to the world inside him, and though he always knew it was there, it has remained an unknown quantity, unexplored and therefore dark, even to himself73.

Blue, however, cannot accept the reality of his predicament, and rather than explore the depths of his psyche, he instead decides to initiate contact with Black. Blue’s ambivalence towards Black’s intentions, as well as the conventions of nineteenth-century American literature again become apparent. Black’s choice of reading material however indicates that he is in control from the outset, and his room contains several books including Thoreau’s Walden, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales, in which the romance “Fanshawe” is contained. Auster refers to Thoreau, Hawthorne, Whitman, Herman Melville and Bronson Alcott in Ghosts. As Auster parodies, yet simultaneously pays homage to the lives and works of his nineteenthcentury literary antecedents, Ford states: “Auster explores the ways in which American Renaissance writers attempted to negotiate the forces of self-division inherent in mid-nineteenth-century economic and cultural relations”74. In his first encounter with Black, Blue adopts the role of an

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elderly vagabond Jimmy Rose, whose name is borrowed from Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener.” Black indulges in word games with Blue and discusses Hawthorne’s conception of authorship. Black reinforces his dominance and comments upon the nature of the dependent relationship evident between him and Blue, who must decipher his alter ego’s cryptic statements in order to achieve any semblance of clarity: If Black is finally resolved to break out of his hermetic routine, then why would he begin by talking to a broken-down old man on a street corner? No, Black knew that he was talking to Blue. And if he knew that, then he knows who Blue is. No two ways about it, Blue says to himself: he knows everything75.

Black refers to Whitman’s interest in phrenology, and states that Whitman had donated his brain to science. Whitman’s wishes remained unfulfilled, however, as his brain smashed upon impact with the floor of the laboratory: “The brain of America’s greatest poet got swept up and thrown out with the garbage”76. Black develops his hypothesis, and recounts a visit from Thoreau and Alcott to Whitman. It is at this meeting of literary minds, that the New Englanders notice a full chamber pot. Black makes an analogy between the contents of Whitman’s skull, and those of the chamber pot. As such, Black comments upon Blue’s surveillance, and his alter ego’s misguided desire for clarity and comprehension with regard to the enigma that is Black: There’s a definite connection. Brains and guts, the insides of a man. We always talk about trying to get inside a writer to understand his work better. But when you get right down to it, there’s not much to find in there—at least not much that’s different from what you’d find in anyone else77.

Moreover, the chamber pot incident reinforces Auster’s scathing concerns with regard to literary criticism, and the opinions of those that mistakenly attach their own carefully constructed hypotheses to his writings. Auster laments the growth of literary critics in the United States of America, and asserts that it is these individuals that determine whether an author can achieve public recognition. This critique of the discipline of literary criticism may stem from the lack of success Auster achieved while writing under the literary pseudonym, Paul Benjamin. Auster castigates the mindset and influence of the American school of literary critics:

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Not only do we have the worst infant mortality rate in the western world, but we probably have the lowest standard of literary journalism anywhere. Some of the people who review books strike me as quasi-illiterate, out-and-out morons. And theirs are the opinions that circulate, at least at the beginning of a book’s life78.

During the course of Ghosts, Black suggests that writers are trapped by the intentions of their fictive creations, and as such, do not possess independent lives: “Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there”79. This sentiment reiterates the viewpoint expressed by Auster in the majority of his writings, and reinforces Auster’s evocation of the postmodern notion of authorial authenticity and accountability. Similarly, Blue intimates that the writer is relegated to the position of a ghostly presence. Indeed, Blue enters Black’s room and is appalled at the degree of minimalist solitude that his counterpart has become embroiled in. Auster is self-deprecating in Blue’s critique of Black’s environment, and alludes to the author’s need for solitude while engaged in the production of a work of literature: Hundreds of pages, perhaps thousands. But you can’t call this a life, thinks Blue. You can’t really call it anything. It’s a no man’s land, the place you come to at the end of the world80.

In my second chapter, I explored the ways in which Auster acted as a facilitator for the stories of other disparate individuals. As a postmodern storyteller, Auster intimates that he is merely a facilitator for the stories of his fictional protagonists, and suggests that each possesses a life of his or her own: “ . . . each book belongs to its central character . . . Each one of these people thinks differently, speaks differently, writes differently from all the others”81. Auster’s reader is presented with fictional narratives based upon the lives of individuals that appear unconnected to the factual Auster. Auster suggests that his readers attach meanings to his fictional works based upon their own experiences. In this respect, the factual Paul Auster remains a shadow or facilitator, and it is the life stories of fictional characters that interest the reading public. Auster refers to his own experience as a reader, and its effect upon his conception of authorship: The one thing I try to do in all my books is to leave enough room in the prose for the reader to inhabit it. Because I finally believe it’s the reader who writes the book and not the writer. In my own case as a

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity reader . . . I find that I almost invariably appropriate scenes and situations from a book and graft them on to my own experiences—or vice versa82.

Thus authorial intention and strict and enforced meanings become secondary to the reader’s experiences and the way in which these determine an interpretation. For example, Auster states that as he reads a novel such as Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, his reading style ensures that the all-powerful authorial persona is largely overlooked in favor of the narrative that unfolds: There’s a strange kind of trickery involved in the writing and reading of novels, after all. You see Leo Tolstoy’s name on the cover of War and Peace, but once you open the book, Leo Tolstoy disappears. It’s as though no one has really written the words you’re reading. I find this “no one” terribly fascinating—for there’s finally a profound truth to it. On the one hand, it’s an illusion: on the other hand, it has everything to do with how stories are written. For the author of a novel can never be sure where any of it comes from. The self that exists in the world—the self whose name appears on covers of books—is finally not the same self who writes the book83.

Moreover, the reader enters a fictional world and becomes a shadow presence with the life stories of fictional characters considered as significant as the reader’s own. Thus Auster’s reader becomes another ghost, and it is the reader rather than the omnipotent narrator that assumes responsibility for the undisclosed fate of Blue. III In the earlier chapters of this book, I explore the ways in which Auster resorts to self-invention in the course of his “autobiographical” writings. Invariably, Auster’s protagonists appear to be versions of Auster. Auster incorporates the factual detail of his life within his fictional narratives, and shares similar experiences with his characters. As Auster employs this postmodern literary device of the blurring of fact and fiction, his ‘autobiographical’ narratives encourage an ambiguous and skeptical reception from Auster’s readers. Auster’s literary universe is populated with authors, many of whom seem to be vaguely reminiscent of Auster himself. In City of Glass, Daniel Quinn encounters a Brooklyn based writer named Paul Auster, who is married to a woman named Siri, and is the father of a son named Daniel. Thus, even

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the family of the fictional author share the same names as Auster’s wife and son. A Brooklyn based writer named Paul is the author of “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story,” and in Smoke, the film version of this festive tale, Paul’s surname is revealed to be Benjamin. Benjamin is Auster’s middle name, and indeed, before publication of The New York Trilogy, Auster wrote under the literary pseudonym of Paul Benjamin. Peter Aaron, narrator of Leviathan, shares the same initials and profession as Auster, and Aaron’s family appear to be shadow versions of Auster’s own. Although writers feature as characters in Auster’s fictional works, Auster critiques the mindset of those involved in this profession, and his authors appear blinkered to the practicalities of their environments. Indeed, some are individuals that ultimately reject the written word. In the sixth and final chapter of this thesis, I investigate the movement from authorship to militancy as exemplified by Benjamin Sachs, the protagonist of Leviathan. Sachs’s contemporary and fellow author Peter Aaron, however, reassures himself with the relative stability associated with his career choice, and struggles to comprehend his friend’s actions. Auster addresses a similar topic in The Locked Room, the final installment of The New York Trilogy. The narrator of The Locked Room is a writer, who inherits a ready-made family with his marriage to Sophie Fanshawe. Sophie’s former husband, the elusive Fanshawe on the other hand, rejects his family and literary aspirations. Comparable to Sachs’s role as the enigmatic Phantom of Liberty, Fanshawe embraces a life of solitude and anonymity. As the narrator attempts to locate, and subsequently, annihilate Fanshawe, Auster highlights the processes involved in the creation of a fictional character, and the author’s eventual and necessary desire to reclaim his own independent life. The narrator is a substitute for Auster, and it is the destruction of Fanshawe’s notebook that ensures The Locked Room, as well as the other installments of the trilogy, can finally come to a coherent and definitive conclusion. As The Locked Room opens, its unnamed narrator appears to be an isolated and ostracized individual, with no immediate emotional attachments. Auster here reiterates the sentiment expressed in Ghosts, and intimates that a writer does not possess a life of his or her own. The narrator of The Locked Room is not a writer of fiction, but is a literary critic, and his scathing regard for his career choice seems related to Auster’s own assertion that criticism is detrimental to the medium of literature as a whole. The narrator notes his successes in the field of literary criticism, but insists that he has achieved relatively little in terms of authorial output. As such, the narrator is distanced from his sense of selfhood and believes that he has ultimately failed as a writer. Therefore, his critical writings are relegated to an inferior and inconsequential position:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity The world saw me as a bright young fellow, a new critic on the rise, but inside myself I felt old, already used up. What I had done so far amounted to a mere fraction of nothing at all. It was so much dust, and the slightest wind would blow it away84.

The narrator seems disgruntled and directionless, and his life and career become secondary to his desire to publish the writings of his erstwhile friend, Fanshawe. The narrator believes that his assignment will provide him with a much-needed purpose in life, and ensure that he is proactive rather than stagnant. Indeed through his interaction with Sophie Fanshawe, the narrator intimates that he will come closer to a degree of beneficial and spiritually uplifting self-awareness: But who wouldn’t jump at the chance to redeem himself—what man is strong enough to reject the possibility of hope? The thought flickered through me that I could one day be resurrected in my own eyes85.

Fanshawe disappears and leaves behind his heavily pregnant wife, Sophie, who enlists the services of a private detective named Quinn. Fanshawe cannot be traced, however, and he seems to have absconded to some unknown region. The narrator cannot comprehend Fanshawe’s inexplicable actions, and initially assumes that his friend is dead: “No man would have left this woman of his own free will—especially not when she was about to have his child. That much was certain to me”86. Prior to Fanshawe’s disappearance, he instructs his wife to contact the narrator, and present the latter with his extensive collection of writings. The narrator states that Fanshawe’s decision to become an author developed during his formative years, and indeed, Fanshawe’s manuscripts are considered to be equal to the life of the disappeared writer. The narrator retrieves Fanshawe’s writings, and states: “Then I hauled the two suitcases slowly down the stairs and onto the street. Together, they were as heavy as a man”87. The narrator embarks upon his assignment, and praises Fanshawe’s writing style, with Fanshawe’s entire body of writing submitted for publication. Comparable to Peter Aaron’s analysis of Sachs’s The New Colossus, and its place within the ‘factual’ canon of American literature, the narrator of The Locked Room accentuates his authenticity, and insists that Auster’s reader should be familiar with both Fanshawe and his writings: I am not planning to go into any details here. By now, everyone knows what Fanshawe’s work is like. It has been read and discussed, there have been articles and studies, it has become public property88.

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With the assistance of the narrator, Fanshawe achieves ‘posthumous’ recognition, and becomes a literary success. Fanshawe’s identity, however, is the subject of much speculation, and Fanshawe’s publisher assumes that Fanshawe is merely a literary pseudonym concocted by the unnamed narrator. The narrator aspires to write fictional novels, but has achieved limited success, and his lack of creativity seems related to his subsequent assertion that he has failed as a writer: I had begun with great hopes, thinking that I would become a novelist, thinking that I would eventually be able to write something that would touch people and make a difference in their lives. But time went on, and little by little I realized that this was not going to happen. I did not have such a book inside me, and at a certain point I told myself to give up my dreams89.

The narrator refers to his desire for redemption, and it is in the guise of Fanshawe that the narrator can fulfill his unrealized potential: “I felt a sudden burst of friendship for Fanshawe across the years, across all the silence of the years that had kept us apart”90. Therefore, the persona of Fanshawe ensures that the narrator achieves a degree of self-awareness and self-confidence that had previously eluded him. The narrator believes that Fanshawe has died and details his plans for his friend’s resurrection, with the narrator now fully ensconced in his role as Fanshawe, a writer of fiction, rather than his own status as a disgruntled literary critic. As the narrator and Fanshawe are considered to be one and the same, Fanshawe will encourage the narrator’s creativity, as well as enable him to achieve his sought after goal of recognition, albeit as a specter of his former friend: I realized that once all of Fanshawe’s manuscripts had been published, it would be perfectly possible for me to write another book or two under his name—to do the work myself and yet pass it off as his91.

The narrator is adamant that he will not adopt Fanshawe’s literary identity, however, and comments upon the way in which other authors who have utilized this literary device, resort to the art of self-invention, and therefore do not assume responsibility for the subject matter of their literary works: . . . the mere thought of it opened up certain bizarre and intriguing notions to me: what it means when a writer puts his name on a book, why some writers choose to hide behind a pseudonym, whether or not

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity a writer has a real life anyway. It struck me that writing under another name might be something I would enjoy—to invent a secret identity for myself92.

The narrator’s critique reinforces the notion of authorial authenticity and accountability as investigated in Auster’s later writings. Similarly, this tendency to adopt the role of another individual reiterates the stance of the protagonists of the earlier installments of the trilogy, in which identities are easily assumed and discarded. This analysis of the intricacies involved in the adoption of a literary pseudonym, moreover, appears related to Auster’s previous incarnation as Paul Benjamin, the author of one novel and a collection of plays, all of which were doomed to critical failure, as well as Auster’s earlier pseudonym of Quinn, the surname which Auster employed as an undergraduate student at Columbia University: “I signed my articles with a pseudonym, just to keep things interesting”93. The narrator transforms himself from a literary critic to a writer of fiction. In this respect his sense of selfhood is rejuvenated. Fanshawe on the other hand, rejects authorship and intimates that his writings are not worthy of publication and widespread recognition. As Fanshawe wholeheartedly rejects his literary aspirations, he echoes the viewpoint expressed by the narrator in relation to his own published writings. The narrator praises Fanshawe’s writings and indicates that these have been the subjects of intense critical scrutiny. Fanshawe pours scorn upon his entire body of writing, however, and states: “No, the book was garbage, believe me. Everything I did was garbage”94. Fanshawe removes himself from the compositional process and attempts to reanimate his already fractured existence. As Fanshawe has become irrecoverably distanced from his sense of selfhood, he is destined to a life of restlessness and resignation. Fanshawe’s desire to reclaim his life and identity is compounded by the fact that the narrator, who has resorted to self-invention, has occupied Fanshawe’s vacant position. Similarly, as the narrator has been responsible for the publication of Fanshawe’s writings, his actions ensure that Fanshawe, the author, has become public property. Fanshawe adopts a new identity, that of Henry Dark, and becomes a self-enforced exile from his country, his family, and indeed, from his own psyche: “I spent two years like that, seeing nothing, doing nothing, living like a dead man”95. Comparable to the mutually dependent relationship between Blue and Black in Ghosts, Fanshawe and the narrator haunt each other’s existences. Although Fanshawe wishes the narrator to act as a replacement for him, Fanshawe himself has been relegated to an anonymous presence, whose life no longer seems relevant. In the final encounter between the pair, the narrator leaves Fanshawe, and cannot account for his present status. Although Fanshawe is armed with a

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loaded revolver, the narrator does not indicate whether or not his friend actually commits suicide. The narrator retrieves Fanshawe’s manuscript, and the search for the elusive Fanshawe peters out, as the narrator reclaims his own identity with the destruction of Fanshawe’s notebook. As the narrator begins to comprehend the fact that the mystery in which he has become involved relates to a straightforward case of an individual who intentionally disappears and severs all emotional attachments, he begins to understand the enigmatic Fanshawe, and attains a renewed level of self-awareness. The narrator’s musings in relation to Fanshawe’s disappearance echo the sentiment expressed by Auster in the majority of his writings, and relate to the subject matter of the second chapter of this book. As the narrator struggles to comprehend Fanshawe’s actions, he reiterates Auster’s conception of the predominance of contingent events and the ways in which these can determine and contribute towards an individual’s subsequent life choices. The narrator cites the example of a French soldier and explorer named La Chere, and explores the way in which La Chere’s life experiences were controlled by outside forces. Although La Chere seemed unable to counteract his eventual destiny, the logic of Fanshawe’s disappearance appears to relate to Auster’s belief that contingency is a constant and intrusive presence in human existence, with lives irrecoverably altered as a consequence of an ostensibly random incident: 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 for96.

The narrator is loath to assume Fanshawe’s literary persona, but is not as reticent in relation to Fanshawe’s personal life. Indeed from the outset the narrator claims that he and Fanshawe are inextricably linked, with limited distinctions drawn between the lives of either man: It seems to me now that Fanshawe was always there. He is the place where everything begins for me, and without him I would hardly know who I am . . . Whenever I think of my childhood now, I see Fanshawe. He was the one who was with me, the one who shared my thoughts, the one I saw whenever I looked up from myself97.

As the narrator has limited interaction with his contemporaries, he almost immediately becomes romantically involved with Fanshawe’s wife. The narrator eventually proposes marriage to Sophie Fanshawe, and wishes to adopt

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Fanshawe’s son, Ben. In this respect, the narrator intimates that he acts of his own volition, and his ready-made family provides a sense of purpose to his existence. These are the actions of a vulnerable individual, however, and comparable to Aaron in Leviathan, the narrator craves the stability associated with his family and literary career. Prior to his impromptu proposal, the narrator receives an anonymous letter, and realizes that Fanshawe is still alive. Fanshawe’s presence poses a threat to the narrator, and the latter is placed in an untenable position. Fanshawe, however, wishes to remain anonymous and instructs the narrator to marry Sophie and adopt her son. Thus Fanshawe views the narrator as a replacement for himself: “My real reason was to find a new husband for her”98. Rather than reveal the truth in relation to his friend, the narrator attempts to eradicate Fanshawe’s existence, and immediately follows his friend’s instruction. Fanshawe determines the narrator’s subsequent actions therefore, and as the narrator acts under duress, he will eventually experience an enforced and self-destructive period of isolation, comparable to that of his mentor. Indeed, the narrator asserts that the letter from Fanshawe ensures that the narrator’s story can finally commence, with all that has gone before considered background and largely irrelevant detail. As Auster returns to his pastiche of detective fiction, the conventional conclusion is revealed to be the start of a complex mystery, and the narrator’s nihilistic descent into his self-destructive quest precipitates his eventual realization and a renewed level of self-awareness: 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 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 beginning99.

With the knowledge that Fanshawe remains a malign presence, the narrator struggles to appease his guilt and guarantee his domesticity. As such, he embarks upon the construction of Fanshawe’s biography, with contributions from Fanshawe’s mother, as well as acquaintances from his past. Fanshawe’s biography then, serves as a vehicle in which the narrator can attempt to comprehend the actions of his erstwhile friend. Sophie Fanshawe provides some initial background information on her husband, and the narrator states that Fanshawe, “dropped out of college after two years . . . wound up working on a ship of some sort for a while . . . had lived in France for several years”100. In the first chapter of this book, I focused upon the autobiographical

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Hand to Mouth, in which Auster details some events from his life prior to the publication of his first novel City of Glass. Auster’s experiences and those of Fanshawe correspond, and Auster’s reader can assume that in The Locked Room, Auster again writes from a first-person autobiographical perspective. In “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster refers to his sister’s ongoing illness: “ . . . my sister suffered through a series of debilitating mental breakdowns”101. Auster’s sister is named Ellen, and it would appear that Auster has based the character of Fanshawe’s sister, who is also named Ellen, upon his own sister. Ellen Fanshawe suffers from mental illness, and Fanshawe writes a number of letters to his sister while an exile from his home country. Ellen Fanshawe is a literary device that Fanshawe utilizes, however, and Fanshawe’s letters are in fact intended for his mother, with whom he has a distant and problematic relationship. As Fanshawe shares Auster’s life history to some extent, Auster’s readers can assume that the elusive and unobtrusive Fanshawe is a version of the author. Auster subverts this conventional analysis, however, and the narrator of The Locked Room appears to be the Auster prototype. Auster worked as a census-taker in 1970, and the narrator shares this occupation. The narrator is revealed to be an inventor of fictions in relation to those who appear on the census forms, and states: “Once, I had given birth to a thousand imaginary souls”102. Indeed, the narrator may refer to his creation of the color-coded characters in Ghosts, with his claim that, whenever his “ . . . imagination flagged, there were certain mechanical devices to fall back on: the colors (Brown, White, Black, Green, Grey, Blue)”103. The narrator attempts to locate Fanshawe, and his actions correspond to those of Auster, who struggles to comprehend the psyche of his unseen protagonist. The search for Fanshawe determines the plot of The Locked Room, and Auster and the narrator become conspirators in their creation of the story of this reluctant and anonymous character. The narrator encounters Fanshawe’s widowed and alcoholic mother Jane, and the pair reminisce about the young Fanshawe. Jane Fanshawe refers to the initial interdependent degree of affinity between her son and the narrator, as well as the similarities in the lives of both men: You even look like him, you know. You always did, the two of you—like brothers, almost like twins. I remember how when you were both small I would sometimes confuse you from a distance. I couldn’t even tell which one of you was mine104. With the narrator’s marriage to Fanshawe’s former wife, this already close bond has become more intimate, and to some degree incestuous. Jane Fanshawe reflects upon her present predicament, and highlights

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the inexplicable nature of a world in which the most outlandish and unpredictable of scenarios can become a distinct and plausible reality: You’re the father of my grandson, do you realize that? You’re married to my son’s wife. If someone had told me ten years ago that this was the future, I would have laughed. That’s what you finally learn from life: how strange it is. You can’t keep up with what happens. You can’t even imagine it105.

Jane Fanshawe’s assertion with regard to the indeterminate nature of human existence, reiterates the viewpoint expressed by Auster in the majority of his writings, and in particular in the series of curious and ‘authentic’ anecdotes that Auster documents in The Red Notebook and Why Write? The logic of Jane Fanshawe’s treatise becomes more apparent during the inebriated and intense moment of passion that she shares with the narrator. The narrator states that he had harbored secret desires for Fanshawe’s mother while an adolescent, but does not anticipate the fact that these will ever come to fruition. The sexual encounter with Jane Fanshawe ensures that the narrator, who has previously married Fanshawe’s wife, comes one step closer to his intended goal, and his desire to inhabit and suppress the psyche of the elusive Fanshawe. This is not an act of love or compassion, and both parties seem intent to vent their frustrations at the absent Fanshawe. Indeed, any sensation of intimacy is juxtaposed with the narrator’s own self-loathing and subsequent disdain with regard to Fanshawe, as well as his mother, whom the narrator views as an extension of Fanshawe himself: For the fact was that I liked fucking Fanshawe’s mother—but in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure. I was consumed, and for the first time in my life I found no tenderness inside me. I was fucking out of hatred, and I turned it into an act of violence106.

The narrator considers Fanshawe a threat to his status and sought after domesticity, while Jane Fanshawe has been abandoned by her son, and seeks revenge through her union with the man who has come to embody her disappeared son: Fucking me would be like fucking Fanshawe—like fucking her own son—and in the darkness of this sin, she would have him again—but only in order to destroy him107.

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In the wake of his encounter with Jane Fanshawe, the narrator becomes distanced from his wife and son, and relocates to France in an attempt to unearth the truth in relation to Fanshawe. His exile, moreover, reinforces the fact that the narrator is intent on the destruction of Fanshawe: “I wanted to kill Fanshawe. I wanted Fanshawe to be dead, and I was going to do it. I was going to track him down and kill him”108. The narrator is disappointed to discover that Fanshawe’s former life reveals no information in relation to the latter’s subsequent disappearance, and the narrator feels alienated and ostracized within this environment. As such, the narrator immerses himself in a destructive cycle of alcohol consumption and promiscuity. His actions ensure that he does not have to confront the inevitable fact that he cannot locate Fanshawe, but are also indicative of the fact that the narrator wishes to terminate his own existence: I was fucking the brains out of my head, drinking myself into another world. But if the point was to obliterate Fanshawe, then my binge was a success. He was gone—and I was gone along with him109.

Peter Aaron resorts to similar techniques in Leviathan, with Aaron’s writings viewed as a beneficial counterbalance to his former life of self-destructive and nihilistic debauchery. Thus Auster intimates that the author remains in an untenable position, and as the narrator veers away from the process of storification, he is forced to confront his own internal demons yet is inevitably doomed to failure. The narrator’s despair, moreover, reiterates Auster’s concerns with regard to the non-existent life of the author. The narrator documents his experiences in France, but is keen to stress that he cannot provide an accurate and coherent account of this entire period: I have lost a month from my life, and even now it is a difficult thing for me to confess, a thing that fills me with shame. A month is a long time, more than enough time for a man to come apart. Those days come back to me in fragments when they come at all, bits and pieces that refuse to add up110.

The quest to locate Fanshawe has a detrimental effect upon the narrator’s psyche, and the narrator’s emotional collapse seems related to Auster’s insistence that it is impossible to inhabit the consciousness of another individual: We exist for ourselves, perhaps, and at times we even have a glimmer of who we are, but in the end we can never be sure, and as our lives go on, we become more and more opaque to ourselves, more and more aware

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity of our own incoherence. No one can cross the boundary into another— for the simple reason that no one can gain access to himself111.

As Fanshawe remains ensconced within the narrator’s every thought and action, the narrator encounters an individual whom he believes to be his former friend. This man is not Fanshawe, however, and his name is revealed to be Peter Stillman. The narrator refuses to believe that Stillman has no connection to Fanshawe, and hounds Stillman to the extent that the stranger turns violent, with the narrator left bruised and bloody. In his already fragmented and incoherent state, the narrator attaches monumental significance to this individual, and asserts that Stillman has become a sentient substitute for the non-existent Fanshawe: I was the sublime alchemist who could change the world at will. This man was Fanshawe because I said he was Fanshawe, and that was all there was to it112.

Although the narrator persists in his desire to alter identities and transform Stillman into Fanshawe, he insists that he is not delusional, and recognizes that there are no similarities between the men. As such, his choice of character to assume the role of Fanshawe, is a contingent choice, with Stillman considered to be in the right place and at the right time: Stillman was not Fanshawe—I knew that. He was an arbitrary choice, totally innocent and blank. But that was the thing that thrilled me—the randomness of it, the vertigo of pure chance. It made no sense, and because of that, it made all the sense in the world113.

This statement by the narrator relates to his assertion that he can attach Fanshawe’s identity to another unrelated individual. As Stillman becomes Fanshawe, the narrator is released from the bonds of his own prior adoption of this role, and as such, frees himself from the constraints associated with this untenable position. With Stillman viewed as Fanshawe, the narrator regains his independence and is finally reunited with his own sense of selfhood. Moreover, the narrator’s claim that Stillman was an arbitrary choice appears to relate to the fact that the narrator opts for this choice of name for the characters in City of Glass. The narrator insists that he is unable to write fictions, yet resorts to the process of storification in an attempt to elucidate his comprehension of the mystery in which he has become embroiled. Thus Peter Stillman in City of Glass becomes a substitute for Fanshawe, while the

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fictional detective Daniel Quinn corresponds to the narrator himself. The narrator incorporates elements from his pursuit of Fanshawe within City of Glass, and borrows the names of Stillman and Quinn from his own narrative. In The Locked Room, the narrator inherits Fanshawe’s wife and son, while his mirror image, Quinn, loses his wife and son prior to the events depicted in City of Glass. Similarly, as the narrator moves from his position as a literary critic to one who becomes involved in the creation of fictions, Blue in Ghosts, is another duplicate for the narrator. Blue’s reports correspond to critical prose, while his recourse to the process of storification relates to the narrator’s own creation of the three novels which comprise The New York Trilogy. The narrator finally encounters the enigmatic Fanshawe, and Fanshawe states that he has covertly observed the narrator’s movements: I watched you. I watched you and Sophie and the baby. There was even a time when I camped outside your apartment building. For two or three weeks, maybe a month. I followed you everywhere you went. Once or twice, I even bumped into you on the street, looked you straight in the eye. But you never noticed. It was fantastic the way you didn’t see me114.

Fanshawe’s surveillance of the narrator corresponds to the actions of Quinn in City of Glass, and Blue in Ghosts. Unlike the narrator, who initially appears blinkered to the practicalities of his environment, his fictional detectives come to realize that their covert activities are not successful. While Black knows that Blue has observed his every movement, Stillman’s hesitancy in relation to his interaction with Quinn, may indicate that indeed Stillman was aware that Quinn had followed him from the outset. The narrator refers to the similarities between the three installments of the trilogy, and states that each novel represents a stage in his level of awareness, and his realization with regard to the nature of his interaction with Fanshawe: The entire story comes down to what happened at the end, and without that end inside me now, I could not have started this book. The same holds for the two books that came before it, City of Glass and Ghosts. These three stories are finally the same story, but each one represents a different stage in my awareness of what it is about115.

Although the narrator considers Fanshawe’s continual presence as abhorrent, he struggles to visualize his nemesis as a sentient individual, and instead

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conjures up an image of the isolated Fanshawe irretrievably ensconced within a locked room: That was the extent of it: Fanshawe alone in that room, condemned to a mythical solitude—living perhaps, breathing perhaps, dreaming God knows what. This room I now discovered, was located inside my skull116.

In Ghosts, Black refers to the reader’s desire to get inside the mind of the author, and Auster reiterates this viewpoint in The Locked Room, as the fictional Fanshawe and the narrative about him inhabit the narrator’s psyche. The parallel between Auster and the narrator becomes evident here, and it is Auster who appears trapped by his fictive creation, Fanshawe. The narrator wishes to kill Fanshawe, and his ambition relates to Auster’s desire to construct a coherent conclusion to his narrative. However, the narrator cannot provide a semblance of definitive certainty in relation to the fate of Fanshawe, and Auster’s protagonist disappears at the close of the novel. Fanshawe is animated through the medium of the written word, and it is the destruction of his notebook that ensures that he meets his inevitable end. The narrator refers to the contents of Fanshawe’s notebook, and his analysis matches the viewpoint expressed by Blue in Ghosts. Fanshawe’s words, moreover, reinforce Auster’s conception of the inadequacy of language, and serve as inspiration for the stories that the narrator will concoct in his attempt to compliment his comprehension of Fanshawe: All the words were familiar to me, and yet they seemed to have been put together strangely, as though their final purpose was to cancel each other out. I can think of no other way to express it. Each sentence erased the sentence before it, each paragraph made the next paragraph impossible117.

Fanshawe’s disappearance, like that of Quinn and Blue, corresponds to Auster’s analysis of the life of a writer, and it is these disappearances that contribute towards the fact that the author can reclaim his life, and remove himself from the compositional process, as well as from the psyche of his fictional protagonist. Thus it is Auster rather than either the narrator or Fanshawe, who escapes from the locked room, that is both the fictional story, as well as the receptacle in which it is contained, namely the novel that Auster has written. CONCLUSION The New York Trilogy remains Auster’s most popular work, and its reception has formalized Auster’s reputation as a postmodern author. As has been illus-

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trated in the course of this chapter, Auster employs a range of obvious postmodern literary devices within The New York Trilogy, and each component novel adheres to the tenets of literary postmodernism as detailed in the first S. In my opening chapter, I addressed those factors that constitute Auster’s postmodernity, and in The New York Trilogy, as well as Auster’s later writings, he reinforces his investigation of the tenets of literary postmodernism. In The Locked Room, the narrator suggests that, “No one wants to be part of a fiction, and even less so if that fiction is real”118. Auster is self-deprecating with regard to the narrator’s claim, and invariably Auster immerses himself within his fictional narratives. Although Auster intimates that there are limited similarities between himself and the fictional Paul Auster in City of Glass, this recurrent tendency in Auster reflects the fact that his writings contribute towards ontological skepticism and foundational indeterminacy. Auster’s evocation of urban dislocation, as documented in City of Glass, reiterates Auster’s worldview that widespread connection remains impossible, and as such, Auster maintains that self-awareness and self-knowledge can guarantee that an individual will find his or her place within an inexplicable and incoherent world. As the individual embarks upon this fraught process of self-recognition, Auster asserts that, as past events determine the future, the individual must resort to memory. Auster’s conception of the nature of memory, then, tallies with the fact that duality permeates his literary universe. In City of Glass, Daniel Quinn meets Paul Auster, and the pair discusses the merits of Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote. The fictional Auster refers to the range of narrative perspectives at play within Cervantes’s picaresque novel, and highlights the fact that Cervantes was keen to stress that his narrative fell within the realm of authenticity. The factual Auster cites Don Quixote as a major literary influence, and in his writings Auster reinforces, yet simultaneously subverts, this notion of authenticity. Thus Auster’s writings encourage a degree of verisimilitude, but Auster’s postmodern hypothesis ensures that conventional reality gives way to a literary world in which nothing can be accepted at face value. As Auster employs the open play of story within his factual and fictional narratives, his postmodern worldview ensures that authorial authenticity is relegated to a secondary position, with the story itself the main concern for Auster, and more importantly, Auster’s readers. Overall, then, Auster’s postmodernity comprises a belief that life is wholly random, and therefore does not adhere to an enforced principle of cause and effect. In this respect, Auster expresses an existential viewpoint in his writings, and insists that humanity can be sure of only one definitive certainty, which is the inevitable end of life. The New York Trilogy is Auster’s first published work, but in the period since publication, Auster has produced a wide range of other factual and fictional

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writings. As Auster continues to explore a recurrent range of themes and issues, his later writings can be labeled postmodern. Auster’s investigation of urban dislocation, duality, and self-invention, has its origins in each installment of the trilogy, and it is these concerns that will be fully developed in a range of Auster’s subsequent writings. As The Locked Room reaches its conclusion, the narrator claims that the words in Fanshawe’s notebook encourage a cyclical reading from the narrator, with any coherent sense of continuity ignored in favor of the continuous and interchangeable story: “ . . . therefore everything remained open, unfinished, to be started again”119. In the earlier chapters of this book, I highlighted Auster’s attitude to the subject matter of his writings. Auster maintains that he continually investigates the “story of my obsessions . . . all my books seem to revolve around the same set of questions”120. Auster’s opinions in relation to the forces that dominate his literary universe can be read in conjunction with the narrator’s critique of Fanshawe’s writings. In his capacity as a postmodern storyteller, Auster invariably ventures into territory that appears disconcertingly familiar, and to some degree wholeheartedly repetitive. I focus upon a full range of Auster’s writings during the course of this book, and demonstrate that the concerns investigated in The New York Trilogy remain significant to Auster, and his conception of the world that he inhabits. Auster’s evocation of various postmodern literary devices continues to be a staple of his ongoing literary project. For instance, in Oracle Nights, the protagonist Sidney Orr, is a novelist who is improbably rescued from a near death experience, the repercussions of which will determine his subsequent actions. Orr inadvertently discovers a notebook and embarks upon the fraught process of composition. In this respect, Orr can be considered a later version of the narrator of The New York Trilogy, who retrieves Quinn’s notebook, and resorts to the process of storification in his construction of the three installments of the trilogy. Similarly, David Zimmer, protagonist of Auster’s 2002 novel The Book of Illusions, mourns the loss of his wife and children, and immerses himself in an obsessive quest to locate the mysterious and disappeared, Hector Mann. Zimmer enters a fantastical and mythic world through his interaction with Mann. Zimmer’s status and his rejection of personal responsibilities, therefore, ensure that he corresponds to Daniel Quinn, the protagonist of Auster’s first novel City of Glass. Thus, it appears that Auster, like his unnamed narrator, does indeed write the same book, or more accurately, interchangeable versions of Auster’s first and most obvious postmodern work, The New York Trilogy.

Chapter Five

Postmodern Modes of Social Identity: Paul Auster’s Evocation of Urban Dislocation, Estranged Solitude, Collective Diversity

I Paul Auster’s fictional works are set against an urban background. As Auster’s various protagonists inhabit the all-encompassing ‘city,’ their lives and aspirations are determined by the confines of the environment in which they place themselves. Auster depicts the city as impersonal and restrictive. His characters struggle to survive within this oppressive regime, and endure numerous hardships. In some cases, the protagonists of the novels disappear without trace. Their former lives and associations seem no longer relevant. Often, these individuals voluntarily exile themselves from the city. The protagonists embark upon quests of discovery, and equate their newfound environments with redemption and spiritual rebirth. However, as Anna Blume, protagonist of In the Country of Last Things discovers, retreat is not always a possibility. As Blume’s escape route is continually blocked, her ontological certainties are challenged. Blume perceives that her restrictive environment offers no concern for individuality, and observes its trapped and apathetic inhabitants resort to nostalgia as a form of self-preservation. Although the city that Blume visits remains unnamed, with elements of many post-war European capitals evident, critics such as Elisabeth Wesseling suggest that Blume’s experiences are similar to those of some inhabitants of contemporary New York City. In “In the Country of Last Things: Paul Auster’s Parable of the Apocalypse,” Wesseling states that Auster’s, . . . country of last things is an anonymous metropolis where continuously exacerbating scarcity, impoverishment and homelessness create an almost uninhabitable world and reduce daily life to a raw struggle for survival. It is quite evident that Auster has conceived of

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity this inhospitable place by way of an extrapolation from certain acute problems of present-day New York. The regression proper to the period of transition is depicted first of all as a dissolution of the world of objects. Industry has come to a standstill and commodities gradually decay, including basic goods such as food and clothes, until there is not much more left over from a former abundance of things but an immense heap of junk1.

New York City is the central location of both The New York Trilogy and Moon Palace. In City of Glass, the elder Peter Stillman meanders aimlessly through the city’s grid like streets. Stillman challenges the concept of diversity, and effectively comments upon the ethos of the metropolis. The city’s apathetic inhabitants seem unable to suppress the despair that has taken hold of their lives. Stillman embraces the obvious dislocation, and describes New York City as: . . . the most forlorn of places, the most abject. The brokenness is everywhere, the disarray is universal. You have only to open your eyes to see it. The broken people, the broken things, the broken thoughts. The whole city is a junk heap2.

An aura of alienation haunts the city, and dislocated introverts people its streets and subways. Each adheres to fixed, yet artificially constructed patterns of behavior. The inhabitants exist in close proximity with one another. However, intimacy and connection are perceived as threatening, and the outside world appears both nightmarish and oppressive. In Moon Palace, Marco Stanley Fogg retreats from the confines of the city, and seeks solace in Central Park. In this carefree environment Fogg experiences a semblance of camaraderie. His contemporaries similarly celebrate the fact that they have become momentary exiles. Fogg is removed from the city, and by extension, the aspirations of capitalism. He is stunned by the magnanimity of those he encounters. Fogg immerses himself in communal activities, and he is altruistically provided with food and money. Ensconced in the relative security of his newfound home, Fogg mediates on the mindset evident within an urban population center: In the streets, everything is bodies and commotion, and like it or not, you cannot enter them without adhering to a rigid protocol of behaviour. To walk among the crowd means never going faster than anyone

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else, never lagging behind your neighbour, never doing anything to disrupt the flow of human traffic. If you play by the rules of this game, people will tend to ignore you. There is a particular glaze that comes over the eyes of New Yorkers when they walk through the streets, a natural and perhaps necessary form of indifference to others3.

Within this chapter I will investigate Auster’s pessimistic exploration of urban life. Although dislocation is the experiential mainstay of Auster’s fiction, I will examine the contradictory viewpoint as illustrated in Smoke and Blue in the Face. Here, the inhabitants of New York City celebrate their diversity, yet realize that each belongs to something larger—the city. While the screenplays can be considered Auster’s most optimistic writings, I will explore the mindset of New York City in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 destruction of the World Trade Center. Arguably, this attack upon the city has resulted in a collective sense of unity, reminiscent of that expressed by the variety of Brooklyn residents in Blue in the Face. Indeed, Auster’s recent writings that deal with the city have moved away from a sense of dislocation, and focus instead upon shared communal identity. Throughout recent history the USA has often been described popularly as a ‘melting-pot.’ Diverse sects seem unified because “ . . . the once sharp distinctions between ethnic groups, such as those represented by the combination of common ancestry and common religion have been eroded”4. As an extension of the nation, New York City is comprised of a mainly immigrant populace. The metropolis, then, is the arena in which this celebration of cultural diversity is paramount. The city’s global image, the Manhattan skyline, presided over by the attentive Statue of Liberty, is equated with the possibility of ethnic integration and financial success. The city extols the virtues associated with pluralism, and promotes the idea that “ . . . all groups have the right to speak for themselves, in their own voice, and have that voice accepted as authentic and legitimate”5. Invariably, this utopian ideal is contrasted with harsh reality, and rather than all embracing, New York City is a ‘mosaic maze.’ Ethnic groups cluster together, yet they possess little or no common ground. As distinctive boundaries occur throughout the city, the populace is segregated. Connection is established solely with those of a similar economic or racial mindset. In New Statesman, David Harvey highlights the evident dislocation within the city. Harvey contends that New York “ . . . is no longer treated as an entity for broad social ends, but as a collage of spaces and people, of

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ephemeral events and fragmentary contacts”6. In “Not Chaos, but Walls: Postmodernism and the Partitioned City,” Peter Marcuse illustrates the various offshoots of the postmodern city. Marcuse refers to the “ . . . abandoned city, the end result of trickle-down, left for the poor, the unemployed, the excluded, where in the United States homeless housing is most frequently located”7. Marcuse states that walls define these independent quarters of the city, with boundaries imposed, not as a source of protection, but rather as an instrument of suppression and incarceration: . . . prison walls, walls defining ghettos and places of confinement, walls built for the control and re-education of those forced to live behind them—the walls of the ancient ghettos, the social and economic walls surrounding the modern ghettos, the physical walls of Andrew Cuomo’s transitional homeless housing in New York City; walls defining the Abandoned City8.

In New York Fictions: Modernism, Postmodernism, The New Modern, Peter Brooker asserts that New York City is: “ . . . divided and uneven . . . composed of dominant, dormant and alternative tendencies”9. Brooker comments upon the plight of New York City’s destitute population, and intimates that, expelled from ‘public’ places, the homeless are further degraded. They have become a hidden underclass, and represent a festering blight upon the urban terrain: Meanwhile, other kinds of places; niches on the street, abandoned buildings, caves below bridges, and the older squares and parks have been occupied by the city’s poor. The more these people are on public view, the more they have disturbed the idea of who the public is and what public places are for10.

Brooker believes that increased levels of immigration have “ . . . effectively swung the city away from its predominantly European cultural affiliations and modernist identity to that of an ethnically mixed, postmodern cosmopolis”11. Brooker’s depiction of the tenets of postmodernism is overwhelmingly negative, and he investigates the detrimental impact of this consolidation of diverse communities. Brooker states: “If many look to this development as a further stage in New York’s (and the nation’s) cultural pluralism, there are strong signs too of new enmities”12. The city’s inhabitants are self-interested, possess little common ground, and each extols the virtues of his or her particular belief system. Brooker claims that some immigrants relocate

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to certain districts of the city and refuse to leave their neighborhoods. The outside and any form of difference are considered with suspicion and mistrust: “ . . . the long-term inhabitants feel a common and increased threat of local violence and attacks upon property and the person”13. Brooker cites the example of Wesley Brown, who claims that amid the obvious dislocation, peripheral and limited degrees of affinity can be found. In a subway station, the passengers listen to a guitarist and overcome their fears and prejudices. Brooker alleges that the music provides a common central focus: . . . where the contradictions of city life are played out on a daily basis: where pluralism dices with paranoia and flamboyant self-assertion meets fear and impacted grievance . . . we are joined by our profound attention to this music. For a brief moment, but no more . . . the guitarist provides an example of coexistence, and thus of cultural uplift, affirming our common humanity14.

Although some form of transitory connection has been established, alienation remains the symptom of this postmodern environment. As the passengers leave the harmonious security provided by the subway station, they return to the impersonal outside world. The passengers remain blinkered and desensitized, and realize that within this arena they are unified solely in their “ . . . total acceptance of the ephemerality, fragmentation, discontinuity, and the chaotic”15. In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs argues that the ethos of postmodernism is entirely negative. Jacobs rebukes the futuristic visions of those associated with post-war urbanization. She targets both city planners and the media, and protests that, as they attempt to construct the perfect society, these individuals have ultimately contributed to the isolation related to urban existence. The civic hierarchy seems concerned with the creation of an all-encompassing façade, which is completely devoid of substance. Thus the aspirations of the city’s inhabitants are ignored. The increasingly diverse populace believe that financial prosperity will be equated with life in the contemporary city, but realize that conditions have not altered. Jacobs comments upon the detrimental impact of post-war reconstruction, and observes: Low-income projects that become worse centers of delinquency, vandalism and general social hopelessness than the slums they were supposed to replace. Middle-income housing projects which are truly marvels of dullness and regimentation, sealed against any buoyancy or vitality of

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity city life. Luxury housing projects that mitigate their inanity, or try to, with vapid vulgarity . . . Expressways that eviscerate great cities. This is not the rebuilding of cities. This is the sacking of cities16.

In The Condition of Postmodernity, David Harvey castigates Jacobs’s negative critique of postmodernism. Harvey asserts that Jacobs possesses a “ . . . profound misunderstanding of what cities are about”17. As change remains a prerequisite of modern life, the postmodern city can be compared to Wittgenstein’s description of language. As new additions are constantly added, language, and by extension, the city, does not remain staid. Words and new boroughs are incorporated to reflect developments in greater society: Our language can be seen as an ancient city: a maze of little streets and squares, of old and new houses, and of houses with additions from different periods; and this surrounded by a multitude of new boroughs with straight regular streets and uniform houses18.

In The Postmodern Turn, Ihab Hassan contrasts representations of the city in modernist and postmodern fiction. Hassan states that the urban environment was once celebrated as an emblem of progress associated with the New World. With the advent of the postmodern era, however, this arena has been transformed into a decentered and impersonal void. The postmodern city is both a product and casualty of the expanding global market, and is categorized by lack of communal identity. Capitalism ensures that various forms of expression compete for dominance: “ . . . the world breaks up into untold blocs, nations, tribes, clans, parties, languages, sects. Anarchy and fragmentation everywhere. A new diversity or prelude to world totalitarianism? Or to world unification?”19 These numerous groupings exert their influence, and the city is divided along race and class lines. Rather than empathize with their fellow citizens and celebrate communal experiences, the populace pledge their allegiances to the indifferent, yet controlling forces of capitalism. They shun integration, and reflective of an uneasy, and occasionally untenable union of separatist communities, pluralism results in increased dislocation. Hassan cites media influence as a contributory factor in this sense of collective alienation. He argues that dehumanized automata inhabit the postmodern city. ‘Dehumanization’ is defined as: “ . . . the end of old Realism. Increasingly, Illusionism takes its place, not only in art but also in life”20. Jean Baudrillard castigates the power of the media, and maintains that, in contemporary society the visual image has achieved prominence. The connotations of the televisual age are such that the city’s populace is

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dissociated and distracted. Baudrillard unsettles any definitive sense of reality and replaces epistemological depth and ontological security with the allencompassing notion of the ‘hyperreal.’ Baudrillard argues that the ‘hyperreal’ relates directly to American society. He claims that the American mindset contributes toward an erosion of discernible facts. For Baudrillard, as the numerous immigrants to New York City are disgruntled with their previous existences, the city becomes a Mecca to the already dispossessed. The inhabitants of New York City embrace the chaotic ethos of their hometown, and take to the streets. Their aspirations are realized only when they accept the logic of this impersonal void: Nothing could be more intense, electrifying, turbulent, and vital than the streets of New York. They are filled with crowds, bustle, and advertisements, each by turn aggressive or casual. There are millions of people in the streets, wandering, carefree, violent, as if they had nothing better to do—and doubtless they have nothing else to do—than produce the permanent scenario of the city21.

Despite Baudrillard’s largely negative assessment, he recognizes that New York is a truly postmodern city. While disintegration and alienation are commonplace, Baudrillard claims that this society symbolizes the advent of a new world order. All developed cities are influenced by, and aspire to be another version of this metropolis: It is a world completely rotten with wealth, power, senility, indifference, Puritanism and mental hygiene, poverty and waste, technological futility and aimless violence, and yet I cannot help but feel it has about it something of the dawning of the new universe22.

Arguably Baudrillard’s critique of New York relates to an artificially created image of the city—that portrayed in television and films. An outsider looking inward, Baudrillard insists that he is qualified to comment upon the ethos of the city. The European critic observes, “ . . . the perfect simulacrum—that of the immanence and material transcription of all values”23. Baudrillard contrasts New York City with many European capitals, yet ultimately exposes his latent prejudices. As the European city is dominated by a discernible sense of history and culture, Baudrillard claims that the ethos of the streets is entirely different. While the mindset of New York encourages dislocation and separatism, European capitals, in Baudrillard’s opinion, produce an overwhelming sentiment of camaraderie: “ . . . the neat, spacious

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geometry is far removed from the thronging intimacy of the narrow streets of Europe”24. Baudrillard’s analysis is stereotypical in the extreme. His preconceptions with regard to New York City are determined by the chaotic streets of central Manhattan, as opposed to discrete, well-focused areas such as Greenwich Village and Chinatown. With the advent of postmodernism, the alienation that Baudrillard equates with New York can equally be applied to European cities. Intimate connection appears associated with the past and a rural environment, and the level of familiarity to which Baudrillard refers, reflects a nostalgic attempt to recreate an earlier society. As the visual image predominates on a global level, there exist limited distinctions between the aspirations and desires of the inhabitants of New York City and their counterparts in developed cultural centers such as Paris and London. Despite the negative connotations of the media, it can be argued that this institution is symptomatic of the ethos of postmodernism. Harvey claims that the ‘all-powerful’ media is ultimately a tool of those it attempts to control. Harvey declares that the postmodern city, therefore, has become a fantastical, yet artificial construct: Post modernism, whatever form its intellectualizing might take, has been fundamentally anticipated in the metropolitan cultures of the last twenty years: among the electronic signifiers of cinema, television and video, in recording studios and record players, in fashion and youth styles, in all those sounds, images and diverse histories that are daily mixed, recycled and ‘scratched’ together on that giant screen which is the contemporary city25.

The televisual image is replayed ad infinitum in homes across the city, and by extension, the nation. Therefore the distinction between reality and illusion becomes blurred. Rather than a sense of unity, these images result in increased alienation. The individual attempts to ascertain where fact ends and fiction begins, but is forced to question the mindset of those in control of the media. This institution is a by-product of the logic of capitalism, and ultimately jeopardizes the coherence of prevailing social self-images. In “Our Decentred Culture: The Postmodern Worldview,” Jack Solomon states that within postmodern society the visual represents the dominant mode of perception. Solomon refers to contemporary news broadcasts: Like the nightly news, whose quick camera cuts can juxtapose images of international violence with pitches for fabric softeners and headache remedies, the postmodern experience is best described as a perceptual

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montage. Gazing upon the world as if it were one vast variety show, the postmodern eye perceives the course of human events as a narrativeless and nonsensical series of skits, as one long episode of ‘Monty Python’26.

As Auster deems New York City the epitome of the postmodern, it is indicative of the city’s ethos that Solomon’s ‘skits’ are replayed against the backdrop of Times Square. Here, screens replay stories of disaster and international terrorism. Billboards for forthcoming films and television shows, and the gaudy neon lights of the local police precinct vie for public consumption. Significantly, Times Square is a classic example of postmodern city planning. Indeed, Marcuse notes that, with the construction of Times Square, a group of planners and architects meticulously sought to create a street that appeared ostensibly chaotic and unplanned. The New York Times reflects this tendency to utilize obvious postmodern devices, and asserts that: “ . . . the plan could easily pass for an apocalyptic preview of what things would look like if all public spaces succumbed to privatization”27. II New York City serves as a backdrop to Auster’s fictional writings. However, Auster must remove himself from this environment to critique its ethos effectively. Comparable to his creation of the fictive persona ‘A’ in “The Book of Memory,” the second book of The Invention of Solitude, Auster portrays his hometown as a barren and decaying post-apocalyptic no man’s land. Thus, the central location of In the Country of Last Things is both a replica of contemporary New York City as well as an extreme vision of a possible, yet recognizable future. Auster refers to this bleak and degraded environment, and maintains that he reflects the level of disintegration evident within New York, a city “ . . . which is rapidly turning into a Third World city before our eyes”28. In his projection of the contemporary city, Auster views homelessness as the norm rather than the exception. Scattered around three urban locations, the masses inertly clamber. Their former affluence is a remnant of the distant past: For those at the bottom, there are the streets and the parks and the old subway stations. The streets are the worst, for there you are exposed to every hazard and inconvenience. Only in the subway stations can you be sure to escape inclemencies, but there you are also forced to contend with a host of other irritations: the dampness, the crowds,

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In “‘Looking for Signs in the Air’: Urban Space and the Postmodern in In the Country of Last Things,” Tim Woods observes that Auster explores: “ . . . the urban space in a putative apocalyptic future, and the manner in which it is occupied, inhabited, and experienced both phenomenonologically and emotionally, by individuals and communities”30. Anna Blume leaves New York City in search of her missing journalist brother, William. Blume is confronted with an altogether alien, yet strangely familiar environment: “Life as we know it has ended, and yet no one is able to grasp what has taken its place”31. Blume attempts to attach a discernible sense of meaning to her existence within the city. She undergoes an intense struggle for survival. Blume discovers that this unidentified location unalterably subverts her established preconceptions. As Blume considers the ethos of all developed cities to be similar, she initially believes that her life will not be radically different. However, Blume realizes that she is “ . . . a constant outsider, looking in on this life in the city, which she always appears to treat as a temporary nightmare”32. The nightmare becomes a prolonged actuality, and Blume must reconstruct her thoughts and actions. This decaying and repressive atmosphere ensures that the individual’s life-force is continually and irreversibly drained: This is what the city does to you. It turns your thoughts inside out. It makes you want to live, and at the same time it tries to take your life away from you. There is no escape from this33.

The city’s sinister controlling forces are involved in a constant process of eradication of all certainties. As the reality of daily life is continually altered, nothing can be taken at face value. During her stay in the city, Blume witnesses the disappearance of her friends, of established locations, and eventually of her thoughts and words. Devoid of all meaning, even language is reduced to the level of a series of nonsensical noises: But then, little by little, the words become only sounds, a random collection of glottals and fricatives, a storm of whirling phonemes, and finally the whole thing just collapses into gibberish34.

Blume is appalled to discover that she has become a participant in a warped contest: the continual battle for survival. Her antagonists are her fellow city dwellers. Although Blume’s plight mirrors that of others, the homeless direct

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their frustrations inward. Rather than a sense of shared camaraderie, each individual poses an ominous threat. Blume mediates upon the collective psyche and lack of communal identity: “The people are too hungry, too distracted, too much at odds with each other for that”35. The law of the jungle is in operation, and society has become cutthroat. Blume notes that commodities have acquired monumental significance. Her narrative implies that carelessness can be fatal, and Blume begins to recognize that overwhelming envy and resentment result in unprovoked acts of violence, and occasionally, death: To collide with someone can be fatal. Two people collide and then start pounding each other with their fists. Or else, they fall to the ground and do not try to get up. Sooner or later, a moment comes when you do not try to get up anymore. Bodies ache, you see, there’s no cure for that. And more terribly here than elsewhere36.

Blume is forced to relinquish the trappings of her former existence. Upon arrival in the city, she voluntarily joins the ever-expanding ranks of the scavengers. A naïve recruit, Blume attributes her early successes to contingency as opposed to any other factor: “If I happened to find something, it was always because I had stumbled onto it by accident. Chance was my only approach”37. During her initial excavation of the streets, Blume locates a variety of significant finds. These include, “ . . . the passport of a man named Quinn”38. Reflective of the concerns investigated within Auster’s literary universe, it is possible that this individual named Quinn and the protagonist of City of Glass are one and the same. Or, indeed, what is the same thing: Auster would like his readers to believe that the identity of the two Quinns may be one and the same. The unnamed narrator of City of Glass states that Daniel Quinn has vanished without trace. It may be the case that Quinn has inadvertently found his way to this unidentified city. His present whereabouts, however, remain shrouded in mystery. Blume encounters an established scavenger named Isabel. Through her dealings with Isabel, Blume accepts that the remits of her self-obsessed mission provide a beneficial escape from constant degradation and an ever-present threat of impending menace: Never think about anything, she said. Just melt into the street and pretend your body doesn’t exist. No musings; no sadness or happiness; no anything but the street, all empty inside, concentrating only on the next step you are about to take. Of all the advice she gave me, it was the one thing I ever understood39.

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Blume is rescued from a life of homelessness, and is offered sanctuary by Isabel and her companion, Ferdinand. In his depiction of the couple—“Isabel, with her lunatic purity and goodness; Ferdinand, adrift in his course, demented angers”—Auster makes direct comparisons between Blume’s inadvertent discovery of this post-apocalyptic country and the exploratory voyage of Christopher Columbus to America40. Isabella and Ferdinand, the Spanish monarchs of the late Fifteenth Century, provided the resources necessary for Columbus’s quest. Ferdinand is a recluse, and he refuses to leave the confines of his apartment. The deranged intellectual is suspicious of intimacy. The outside world becomes equated with death and a cognitive lack of certainty. Ferdinand spends his days engaged in the construction of model ships, and his intention is to escape: “Such beautiful little ships, so perfect and small. They make you want to shrink yourself to the size of a pin, and then climb aboard and sail away”41. Ferdinand is disgruntled due to his inactivity. He becomes enraged and abusive, and his frustrations become directed at women. As Blume spurns Ferdinand’s lecherous attentions, he forces himself upon her. Blume’s act of resistance and self-preservation represents an escape from her tormentor’s clutches, as well as from the ingrained rigor of city life: In that first instant after I began to apply the pressure, I felt an immense happiness, a surging, uncontrollable sense of rapture. It was as though I had crossed some inner threshold, and all at once the world became different, a place of unimaginable simplicity. I shut my eyes and then it began to feel as if I were flying through empty space, moving through a night of enormous blackness and stars. As long as I held onto Ferdinand’s throat, I was free. I was beyond the pull of the earth, beyond the night, beyond any thought of myself42.

However, as Tim Woods observes, Blume’s impromptu act of violence serves as a catalyst for her subsequent actions. Blume takes the life of another human being, and will attempt to make amends: Blume retreats from this realization and reasserts her integrity through her resistance to the bestial and immoral behaviour inculcated in and exerted upon people by the social structures of the city’s exigencies and pressures43.

The environment to which Blume relocates symbolizes an end of history. The apathetic populace constantly anticipates, and occasionally welcomes, annihilation. In her critique of the novel, Wesseling states:

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Auster’s eschatological speculation about the end of the world begins and ends in the period of transition which supposedly precedes the apocalypse, according to the conventions of the apocalyptic paradigm44. As scarcity is paramount, all possessions are easily discarded. Indeed, each new day appears suggestive of finality. However, Blume maintains that individuals and emotions have assumed the level of commodities. She intimates that a prerequisite of contemporary existence is the ability to become desensitized and self-interested: When you live in the city, you learn to take nothing for granted. Close your eyes for a moment, turn around to look at something else, and the thing that was there before you is suddenly gone. Nothing lasts, you see, not even the thoughts inside you. And you mustn’t waste your time looking for them. Once a thing is gone, that is the end of it45.

In this unnamed city, conventions are irrecoverably distorted. Yet the city’s inhabitants are unable to counteract established protocols. These individuals attempt to obscure reality, and resort to nostalgia. The halcyon days of the past seem preferable to the reductive nothingness that has consumed the collective psyche. As they attempt to combat the degradation evident within the city, the populace naively yearn for a better future. Some inhabitants strive to shut out reality. Nonchalance and indifference are employed as coping mechanisms. Blume states that these represent the minority, however, and the associations of the past remain resolutely ingrained: It would be good, I suppose, to make yourself so hard that nothing could affect you anymore. But then you would be alone, so totally cut off from everyone else that life would become impossible. There are those who manage to do this here, who find the strength to turn themselves into monsters, but you would be surprised to know how few they are. Or, to put it another way: we have all become monsters, but there is almost no one without some remnant inside him of life as it once was46.

Blume’s awareness of the practicalities of her newfound environment is shared by many of her contemporaries. However, as opposed to a resolute determination to challenge the workings of the system, the majority relinquish responsibility. They are unable to oppose the sinister logic of the city, and blindly accept that they are ultimately powerless. Blume documents the lives of her fellow city dwellers. Invariably, she observes complacency, abject misery and apathetic surrender:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity In order to live, you must make yourself die. That is why so many people have given up. For no matter how hard they struggle, they know they are bound to lose. And at that point it is surely a pointless thing to struggle at all47.

Annihilation is the only certainty in this hostile landscape. The populace attempts to define existence according to the manner of their deaths. The final demise is a positive, if belated, celebration of an otherwise meaningless life: “Death is transformed into an aesthetic action, in which beauty and the ‘grand spectacle’ dominate as ritualized forms of self-transcendence”48. While Euthanasia Clinics pander to the needs of the wealthy, death-trucks patrol the streets on a daily basis. The masses are deposited unceremoniously in the city’s numerous crematoria. Blume details the various tried and tested methods employed by the city’s inhabitants. She mentions suicide, the slaughterhouses, and the Assassination Clubs. This latter covert group targets those who have sought out and acquired death. The execution will occur at an unspecified time in the future. As the ‘victims’ are wholly disgruntled, they exult in approaching death. Each day is embarked upon as if this will be the last: Death is no longer an abstraction, but a real possibility that haunts each moment of life. Rather than submit passively to the inevitable, those marked for assassination tend to become more alert, more vigorous in their movements, more filled with a sense of life—as though transformed by some new understanding of things49.

Auster portrays a society in which death is a daily obstacle. As such, he scathingly critiques his hometown. Symptomatic of American ‘gun culture,’ widespread violence is commonplace in New York City. Existence may be randomly and nonsensically terminated, and any individual can become the accidental or contingent victim of an unprovoked shooting. Woods comments upon Auster’s depiction of this impersonal arena, and suggests that Blume’s city is an exaggerated version of the dreaded metropolis. Life is both celebrated and considered obsolete. The inhabitants seize the moment, yet recognize the continuous presence of death. They are simultaneously tormented by the inexplicable and the inevitable: In an intriguing fashion, death, rather than functioning as a form of narrative closure, actually spices up the narrative and urges a new opening to life. Such a space of economic deprivation and daily

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hopelessness causes an inversion of ‘normal’ human values, making the assassin a valuable social asset and death something one longs for, spending a great deal of money and effort upon, rather than seeking to avoid at all costs. Resulting from these sorts of inversions and paradoxes, Blume finds that a strange space emerges within the city, which one is unable to define and comprehend: a space that defies conventional actions; a space that incapacitates all habitual thought50.

An overwhelming malaise determines the city, and as even births have ceased as the possibility of regeneration is nullified: Auster endows the encroaching apocalypse with concrete materiality by depicting a world which is literally being depleted up to the point where human beings are bound to disappear eventually, for there are no new births in the country of last things anymore51.

Blume is a genetic misfit and a throwback to an earlier regime. She falls pregnant, and is initially appalled at the thought of bringing a new life into this stagnant environment. Blume eventually informs her partner, Samuel Farr. She belatedly accepts the logic of Farr’s argument. Farr ponders the possibility of rejuvenation, and insists that the unborn child symbolizes redemption and spiritual renewal: The child meant that we had been spared, he said. We had overturned the odds, and from now on everything would be different. By creating a child together, we had made it possible for a new world to begin52.

However, symptomatic of life in this barren zone, the couple are ultimately doomed. After a fire in their former home, Farr disappears. He resurfaces several months later, but his psyche is irrecoverably altered. Farr’s adopted stance becomes an enforced means of self-preservation. He recognizes that he is merely an anonymous victim of the metropolis: The object of my life was to remove myself from my surroundings, to live in a place where nothing could hurt me anymore. One by one, I tried to abandon my attachments, to let go of all the things I ever cared about. The idea was to achieve indifference, an indifference so powerful and sublime that it would protect me from further assault53.

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Blume attempts to purchase a pair of shoes, with shoes considered to be the city’s most valuable commodity. She is lured to a clandestine slaughterhouse, however, and throws herself from the apartment window. As Blume saves herself, she miscarries. The life of her unborn child is untimely terminated, and Blume becomes another damaged and sterile city dweller. Moreover, future conception is impossible. Blume’s estranged solitude now matches that of others in the country of last things. Blume contemplates her position upon arrival in the unnamed city. She articulates her own individualistic philosophy, and her struggle to persevere becomes motivation for her existence. Self-awareness and the prospect of spiritual renewal counterbalance continual unendurable hardships: Let everything fall away, and then let’s see what there is. Perhaps that is the most interesting question of all: to see what happens when there is nothing, and whether or not we will survive that too54.

Auster critiques the mindset of contemporary society in In the Country of Last Things. He asserts that spirituality and the desire for self-knowledge have been replaced by a detrimental craving for insignificant objects. Auster maintains that possessions are ultimately of limited value, and individual perseverance is valued in relation to an acceptance of the practicalities of daily existence: Thus, Auster’s fantasy about the end of the world should not be regarded as a prophecy of doom but as an inquiry into the little that is necessary to make life liveable. His experiment in reduction shows that fundamental necessities are not an absolute, but a relative aggregate, because the value and significance of those goods that people tend to treasure increases in inverse ratio to their availability55.

Blume is poised to disembark from the confines of this urban nightmare at the close of the novel. Her optimistic assessment of a possible future signifies that she has triumphed over the numerous obstacles associated with the city. Blume seizes control, and rebels against arduous depravity and limited expectations. Her departure is associated with a rejection of the ethos of this postapocalyptic environment. Blume insists that the ravages of the metropolis have been vanquished. The next phase of her life offers the possibility of renewal: “Anything is possible, and that is almost the same as nothing, almost the same as being born into a world that has never existed before”56. While Blume’s fate is never disclosed, she triumphantly escapes from the city. Her letters somehow

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find their way into the public domain. Blume has reached her target audience, and the reader empathizes with her experiences. The city is exposed as a corrupted and decaying arena of squalor and communal suppression. Despite the reductive effect of city life, Auster maintains that the ending of the novel represents the constant battle between individual expression and corporate bureaucracy. Indeed, with perseverance, the individual can mould and subvert the structures imposed by a despotic hierarchy: In the end, I find it the most hopeful book I’ve ever written. Anna Blume survives, at least to the extent that her words survive. Even in the midst of the most brutal realities, the most terrible social conditions, she struggles to remain a human being, to keep her humanity intact. I can’t imagine anything more noble and courageous than that57.

The annihilated environment from which Blume retreats is comparable to the dystopian society envisaged by William Stone in The Music of Chance. The City of the World is a miniature replica of the average American city. Auster’s pessimistic view of the City of the World is that it is inhabited by a collection of ‘diffracted’ individuals. Stone, a malign despot, controls and regiments the lives of these individuals. Stone’s city appears ostensibly idyllic. The overriding sentiment is suppression, however. The ‘contented’ citizens must adhere to enforced protocols, and any differentiation from the established norm is considered an aberration. As such, the severest of punishments is meted out. The city’s populace is incapable of independent thought, and the possibility of escape and future happiness is never an option. Stone tampers with the laws of probability in order to achieve unprecedented success in the lottery. Similarly, he enforces his warped and limited Puritanical preconceptions upon the City of the World. Within the city, the forces of the state, representative of the conservative right, are in constant conflict with those who reject conformity, and opt instead for individuality. However, and reflective of Stone’s personal beliefs, it is the right who enforce discipline. Stone’s business partner, William Flower, informs his guests, that the city is, “ . . . an artistic vision of mankind . . . a place where the past and future come together, where good finally triumphs over evil”58. Stone reiterates this viewpoint, and states that his model city represents an idealized version of contemporary life: “It’s the way I’d like the world to look”59. Stone insists that any deviation from the norm represents a concerted attack upon the unified collective. However, dissenting voices continue to argue in favor of the values formerly associated with democracy. A commentary upon the ethos of contemporary America, the City of the World is the ‘Promised

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Land’ as envisioned by the nation’s founding fathers. The original Puritan settlers sought to colonize the nation, and the indigenous population was suppressed and often annihilated. The power structure ensures that attacks upon the status quo are nullified. Significantly, and comparable to Benjamin Sachs’s stance in Leviathan, those who advocate change are dismissed as subversive and unpatriotic. Flower exposes the prejudices of Stone and himself. For them, the enlightened hierarchy is justified in its treatment of corrupted dissenters: Evil still exists, but the powers who rule over the city have figured out how to transform that evil back into good. Wisdom reigns here, but the struggle is nevertheless constant, and great vigilance is required of all the citizens—each of whom carries the entire city within himself60.

Stone’s city is driven by a desire for structure and revenge upon those who transgress established boundaries. The model will continue to haunt Jim Nashe, protagonist of The Music of Chance. Nashe focuses upon the prison, and is perturbed to discover a blindfolded prisoner in front of a firing squad. Flower describes the prison’s inhabitants as contented, with incarceration embraced as a means of atonement for past crimes. However, Nashe can only wonder what misdemeanor this particular individual has committed. In contrast to the ethos of the beneficial justice system, this prisoner is not permitted the possibility of future redemption. The convict refuses integration into this totalitarian society, and therefore he must be silenced. The prisoner’s fate serves as an example to others, and death is employed as a weapon to neutralize the opposition. Nashe reflects upon the barbarity of Stone’s repressive regime. He accepts that he has completely misjudged his opponents: . . . the overriding mood was one of terror, of dark dreams sauntering down the avenues in broad daylight. A threat of punishment seemed to hang in the air—as if this were a city at war with itself, struggling to mend its ways before the prophets came to announce the arrival of a murderous, avenging God61.

Stone is a crazed visionary. He seems unable to distance himself from the role of all-powerful deity. Stone is revered by his miniature creations, and he expects those with whom he interacts to be as easily manipulated. Paid lackey, Calvin Murks is the epitome of the ‘model’ citizen. Nashe and his companion Jack Pozzi however, are considered subversive criminals:

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“ . . . they had been relegated to the category of nonpersons”62. Under Stone’s instruction, the escaped Pozzi is violently, and possibly, fatally assaulted. Stone constructs a replica of the mansion, and the intricate structure of the model extends its malign influence over Nashe. As Nashe’s thoughts are controlled and his every action is intensely scrutinized, he experiences an unalterable sense of dislocation. Nashe believes that his actual existence has been terminated. He considers himself an artificial construct, and a replica figure trapped within the ever-expanding City of the World: Sooner or later, Nashe thought, there would be a new section to represent where he was now, a scale model of the wall and the meadow and the trailer, and once those things were finished, two tiny figures would be set down in the middle of the field: one for Pozzi and one for himself. The idea of such extravagant smallness began to exert an almost unbearable fascination over Nashe. Sometimes, powerless to stop himself, he even went so far as to imagine that he was already living inside the model. Flower and Stone would look down on him then, and he would suddenly see himself through their eyes—as if he were no larger than a thumb, a little grey mouse darting back and forth in his cage63.

In ‘The Music of Chance: Aleatorical (Dis)harmonies Within ‘The City of the World,’” Tim Woods states that Stone’s utopian vision represents his desire to construct a perfect society. Woods argues that the origins of such desire are evident within the Puritan ethos associated with the formation of the American nation: An eternal present operates, as various stages of Stone’s life occur in a fusion of past and future as a denial of history. Stone’s City of the World, in other words, becomes symbolic of a certain ideological world order, a pattern of social life based upon the absolute ideological control of its subjects64.

The City of the World is bordered by the Four Realms of Togetherness. Therefore Stone’s model depicts “ . . . a society based upon terror, vengeance, harsh treatment, and penal servitude”65. Woods claims that the Four Realms of Togetherness, “the Hall of Justice, the Library, the Bank, and the Prison”66, adhere to Louis Althusser’s description of ‘Repressive and Ideological State Apparatuses.’ Woods states that these apparatuses “ . . . represent and

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reproduce the myths and beliefs crucial to the smooth working of people within the existing social formation”67. These institutions function in accordance with the dominant mode of production, and with the compliance of the city’s inhabitants. Society accepts these apparatuses without question. Stone insists on harmonious unity, but the ‘Realms of Togetherness’ ultimately ensure that discipline is maintained. Those who deviate from the norm are subjected to the state’s most repressive, and arguably most influential extension—the prison. The populace proclaim their status as model citizens, and suppression of free will is guaranteed. As collective unity is paramount, this is a society in which suspicion predominates. Individual thought and action are universally suppressed, and the regimented citizens act as an extension of the all-powerful deity: The society functions as the Protestant God that keeps all under constant observation, and the individual members of the God-society absorb this surveillance unto themselves for their own and others’ sakes, in acts of selfpolicing68.

Nashe is unintentionally trapped within a restrictive and bureaucratic nightmare. This incomprehensible structure appears more oppressive than the environment from which he was initially distanced and that had prompted him into the elective exile of the open road: The dream was always vivid and exact, less a distortion of the real than a simulacrum, an illusion so rich in the details of waking life that Nashe never suspected that he was dreaming69.

Nashe is forced to subvert Stone’s meticulously calculated plans. He self-consciously demolishes the rigid structure of this malignant miniature conurbation. Nashe resumes control and accepts accountability for his actions. Power is once again associated with the road, and Nashe realizes that the unfolding drama of the novel has been a precursor to a triumphant moment of self-awareness. Nashe rejects enforced and disabling constriction, and opts for the unknown. He remains content in the knowledge that he is finally a freethinking individual. Woods asserts that the ambiguous ending of The Music of Chance represents Auster’s pessimistic attitude towards the laws imposed by contemporary society. Nashe recognizes that he remains an impotent victim, and as such, he embraces obliteration: The abrupt ending of the novel, with its unspecified suggestion of a car crash and the possible death of Nashe, carries the narrative ambiv-

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alence to the very (in)conclusion of the text. Power emerges as the victor, having forced the two protagonists into situations where there is no way out (as well as no way of knowing the way in). This pessimistic construction ultimately appears to suggest that in the late 1980s, American society has been totally sewn up by the power of capital, leaving little or no room for reflexive manoeuvre or ideological critique70.

Nashe’s escape from confinement echoes Blume’s triumph over adversity. Auster’s protagonists deliberately remove themselves from enforced restriction, and their continued optimism and increased level of self-awareness signifies the advent of new beginnings. Despite the oppressive subject matter of the novels, Auster maintains that he focuses upon the individual’s successful resistance to artificially imposed structures. Each of Auster’s protagonists combats and subverts the shackles of the city: At bottom, I think my work has come out of a position of intense personal despair, a very deep nihilism and hopelessness about the world, the fact of our own transience and mortality, the inadequacy of language, the isolation of one person from another. And yet, at the same time, I’ve wanted to express the beauty and extraordinary happiness of feeling yourself alive, of breathing in the air, the joy of being alive in your own skin71.

Auster’s protagonists witness the eradication of all previously held certainties. As outside forces impact the lives of Auster’s contemporary heroes, they are subjected to enforced solitude. More often than not, indifference is employed as a coping mechanism. However, Auster’s message relates to a triumph over adversity, and Blume and Nashe strike notes of resistance. Although these individuals have been consistently weakened, at the climax of the novel each locates dormant and long forgotten inner strength. This degree of self-awareness allows the Auster protagonist to challenge and ultimately subvert the warped and oppressive logic of an inanimate structure. III In his cultural study In Search of New York, Philip Kasinitz refers to the mythical status of New York City. Kasinitz argues that as the metropolis consistently offers the prospect of rejuvenation, it has become synonymous with the nation’s uncharted, and as yet, unrealized frontier:

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Paul Auster’s Postmodernity At its best New York has historically shown the potential for a public life that emphasizes equality without requiring conformity. It is a mode of politics in which diversity is welcome, and perhaps even rewarded. This ideal has seldom been achieved in practice, particularly where non-white people are concerned. It also contains the danger that the various component parts will seal themselves off in opposition to the whole . . . Still the idea of a different people coming together in the public sphere is a central part of the city’s cultural history72.

In Smoke and Blue in the Face, Auster subverts his earlier pessimistic expose of the impersonal and decentered sense of community. Thus, he reiterates the viewpoint expressed by Kasinitz. Auster reveals that he set out to challenge preconceived notions of the city. Brooklyn, the central location of both screenplays, projects a positive alternative to the standardized arena of disintegration and communal mistrust: It has to be one of the most tolerant and democratic places on the planet. Everyone lives there, every race and religion and economic class, and everyone pretty much gets along. Given the climate in the country today, I would say that qualifies as a miracle. I also know that terrible things go on in Brooklyn, not to speak of New York as a whole. Wrenching things, unendurable things—but by and large the city works. In spite of everything, in spite of all the potential for hatred and violence, most people make an effort to get along with each other most of the time. The rest of the country perceives New York as a hellhole, but that’s only one part of the story. I wanted to explore the other side of things in Smoke, to work against some of the stereotypes that people carry around about this place73.

Auster was asked to write a festive story for the 1990 Christmas Day edition of The New York Times. The result was “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story,” a tale of chance and contingency already discussed at some length in Chapter One. The action of Smoke occurs as a prequel to the meeting between Auster and his neighbor, Auggie Wren, and Wren’s story is depicted during the pivotal closing scene. Smoke focuses upon the interaction between three diverse characters. Paul Benjamin, a substitute for the factual Auster, is a regular customer at Wren’s tobacconists, while a runaway named Rashid Cole rescues Benjamin from a near death experience. Benjamin assumes the role of Cole’s surrogate father, and as the film progresses, Cole adopts the pseudonym, Paul Benjamin. The lives and experiences of the protagonists

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merge over the course of several months. Each interaction is equated with self-awareness and rejuvenation. Although Auster celebrates the ethos of his hometown, this is not a romanticized and unrealistic portrait of New York City. The characters in Smoke are disgruntled, embittered and cynical. Therefore, they do not differ radically from the protagonists of Auster’s novels. However, their lives are determined through interaction with one another. As the collective psyche appears beneficially transformed, these individuals embrace camaraderie. Auster asserts that the title Smoke reflects the degree of connection evident in the screenplay. As imposed defensive barriers and clouded intentions are challenged and subverted, the practicalities of each situation are revealed. The protagonists become involved in a continual process of enlightenment: On the word “smoke”? I’d say it’s many things all at once. It refers to the cigar store of course, but also to the way smoke can obscure things and make them illegible. Smoke is something that is never fixed, that is constantly changing shape. In the same way that the characters in the film keep changing as their lives intersect. Smoke signals . . . smoke screens . . . smoke drifting through the air. In small ways and large ways, each character is continually changed by the other characters around him74.

Symptomatic of Auster’s concerns as an author, each portrayal is well rounded. Auster provides meticulous “‘Character Notes’ for many of the parts, exhaustive lists and comments to help fill in the background of each character’s life”75. Indeed, this is a warts and all portrayal of some inhabitants of Brooklyn. Auster is keen to stress that he presents an accurate vision of city life. His established characters are not merely reduced to the level of exuberant and fatuous stereotypes. Although each of the protagonists has reached a deeper understanding of both themselves and their environment, they remain scarred by the associations of their previous existences. The past can never be completely erased. While spiritual renewal is paramount, Auster states that each protagonist is an inconsistent individual, with negative qualities pointedly emphasized: I mean, no one is simply one thing or the other. They’re all filled with contradictions, and they don’t live in a world that breaks down neatly into good guys and bad guys. Each person in the story has his strengths and weaknesses. At his best, for example, Auggie is close to being a Zen master. But he’s also an operator, a wise guy, and a downright grumpy

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Benjamin’s wife was killed in a neighborhood shooting, and he attempts to reconstruct his life. His efforts are rewarded though with continual writer’s block and the desire for obliteration. Wren recounts the circumstances surrounding the death of Ellen Benjamin, and informs his customers that he experiences a semblance of culpability. In Wren’s perspective, the indifferent forces of contingency conspired to nullify Ellen’s life. Similarly, it is these same forces that determine Benjamin’s subsequent existence: I sometimes think that if she hadn’t given me exact change that day, or if the store had been a little more crowded, it would have taken her a few more seconds to get out of here, and then maybe she wouldn’t have stepped in front of that bullet. She’d still be alive, the baby would have been born, and Paul would be sitting at home writing another book instead of wandering the streets with a hangover77.

Benjamin arrives at Wren’s locked store, and implores the shopkeeper to sell a tin of Schimmelpennicks, the brand of cigar favored by Auster and him. Benjamin notices a camera, and inquires about its history. Wren states that he has taken a daily photograph at his street corner for the past fourteen years. Benjamin is intrigued but disappointed to discover that all of the photographs depict the same scene. His initial assessment of Wren’s modus operandi is that the duplicate images contribute to a sense of dislocation and confusion. However, Wren insists that the various photograph albums represent the changing, yet continuous flux of city life: They’re all the same, but each one is different from every one. You’ve got your bright mornings and your dark mornings. You’ve got your summer light and your autumn light. You’ve got your weekdays and your weekends. You’ve got your people in overcoats and galoshes, and you’ve got your people in shorts and T-shirts. Sometimes the same people, sometimes different ones. And sometimes the different ones become the same, and the same ones disappear. The earth revolves around the sun, and every day the light from the sun hits the earth at a different angle78.

Benjamin locates a photograph of his deceased wife, and reacts against his earlier melancholic stance. The montage is a celebration of Ellen’s existence.

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It becomes a catalyst for the extrication of Benjamin’s internal demons. The associations of the past are diminished. Benjamin undergoes a cathartic process, and is able to recommence his writings. His friendships with Wren and Cole are regarded as beneficial contributory factors. Benjamin once again immerses himself in the act of writing, and his initial composition is “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story.” Benjamin distractedly steps into the path of oncoming traffic. Cole rescues Benjamin, and an intense bond soon develops between the ‘surrogate’ father and son. Cole’s chance intervention ensures that he and the author are inextricably linked: “It’s a law of the universe. If I let you walk away, the moon will spin out of orbit . . . pestilence will reign over the city for a hundred years”79. Benjamin accepts responsibility for the life of another human being, and offers sanctuary to Cole. Benjamin’s preoccupation with the boy’s plight represents a necessary distraction from his own abject misery. Cole immediately recognizes a kindred spirit, and he playfully informs Benjamin that they are destined to be together. As neither can conform to society’s enforced restrictions, they are dejected exiles: “That’s because we don’t belong anywhere. You don’t fit into your world, and I don’t fit into mine. We’re the outcasts of the universe”80. Cole conceals a bag of money at Benjamin’s apartment, and claims that he inadvertently retrieved the proceeds of an attempted robbery. The thief’s story, then, mirrors Wren’s far-fetched festive anecdote. Benjamin accepts Cole’s version of the truth, however, and thereby reveals his naivety. Cole adopts the name ‘Paul Benjamin,’ and becomes yet another version of Auster. Cole embarks upon a quest to locate his absent father, Cyrus. Cole meets his father, and observes an embittered and ostensibly broken man. A hook replaces Cyrus Cole’s mangled left arm. Cyrus Cole is profoundly affected by the death of his former partner, Louisa Vail. The elder Cole explains the circumstances surrounding his injuries, and his son comes to realize that his wayward father is far removed from the demonic figure that has long haunted him: Twelve years ago, God looked down on me and said, “Cyrus, you’re a bad, stupid, selfish man. First of all, I’m going to fill your body with spirits, and then I’m going to put you behind the wheel of a car, and then I’m going to make you crash that car and kill the woman who loves you. But you, Cyrus, I’m going to let you live, because living is a lot worse than death.”81

With the intervention of Wren and Benjamin, Cole and his father are reunited. The initial hostility between the father and son is dissolved due

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to the presence of Cyrus Cole’s new wife, Doreen. Doreen insists that reconciliation offers the prospect of hope and a new beginning. She explains her optimistic philosophy to the assembled grouping. In the company of her husband, son, and newly discovered stepson, Doreen intimates that the family unit can triumph over adversity: “But you take the good with the bad, right? You do your best and hope that things work out . . .”82 Wren applies this logic to his dealings with his former partner, Ruby McNutt. The young Wren had stolen a necklace for McNutt, and was arrested and conscripted into the navy. McNutt unceremoniously attached herself to a succession of lovers. Felicity, McNutt’s pregnant heroin addicted daughter disappears. McNutt wishes to find her daughter as well as reconcile Felicity with her absent ‘father,’ the unsuspecting Wren. Wren is incensed at what he perceives as McNutt’s calculated tale of deception, but he subsequently agrees to visit his ‘daughter.’ Wren meets Felicity, and is perturbed to discover a foul-mouthed and defiant teenager. Her reaction to his presence comprises an extension of the disdain with which she regards her mother: “I don’t got no daddy, you dig? I got born last week when some dog fucked you up the ass”83. Wren is haunted by Felicity’s plight, and decides to finance a rehabilitation program. Wren demands the truth from McNutt in relation to Felicity’s parentage, and McNutt replies: “I don’t know, Auggie. She might be. Then again, she might not. Mathematically speaking, there’s a fifty-fifty chance. It’s your call”84. Wren recognizes that McNutt’s sentiment accurately reflects his assessment of the human condition. Auster’s stage directions imply that Wren’s reaction symbolizes his acceptance of the ambiguous nature of McNutt’s claim: “Close-up of Auggie’s face. After a moment, he begins to smile.”85 The impromptu Blue in the Face is both a sequel and a companion piece to Smoke. The action of the screenplay occurs in tandem with a commentary from the composer and musician, Lou Reed. Auster states that Reed’s involvement was an essential component of the film: “Something to do with his caustic sensibility, perhaps, his appreciation of the ironies of life, or perhaps simply because of his marvellous New York-accented voice”86. Reed is credited as ‘The Man With Unusual Glasses.’ He opens his monologue, ‘Lou’s Views,’ with an ostensibly outright condemnation of his hometown. Indeed, his decision to live in New York City appears determined by a sense of ineffectual apathy as opposed to any other factor. Reed appears to echo the earlier stance of the elder Peter Stillman in City of Glass, and this level of pessimism suggests Auster’s return to familiar territory. Reed amusingly details the reasons that ensure he remains within the metropolis:

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I think one of the reasons I live in New York is because . . . I know my way around New York. I don’t know my way around Paris. I don’t know my way around Denver. I don’t know my way around Maui. I don’t know my way around Toronto, et cetera and so on. It’s almost by default. I don’t know very many people who live in New York, who don’t also say, “But I’m leaving.” I’ve been thinking of leaving for . . . thirtyfive years now. I’m almost ready87.

Blue in the Face involves a series of anecdotal incidents enacted against the backdrop of Wren’s store, and was filmed over a period of six days. Unlike with Smoke, redemption is not Auster’s primary concern here. This is an unabashed celebration of the borough of Brooklyn, and the borough’s collective diversity and accepting tolerance are emphasized. Photographer Harvey Wang details the pluralistic Brooklyn attitude depicted in Blue in the Face, and states: There is no one voice for all of Brooklyn. Like an orchestra, each voice contributes an accent, a “fuck you buddy, that’s my parking space” attitude, a cheer, a kvetch. The resulting cacophony is the soundtrack of this one-of-a-kind place88.

The extrovert protagonists of Blue in the Face strive to formulate their opinions and make their voices heard. As each distinct expression competes for dominance, the residents of Brooklyn continually engage in a playful battle with their contemporaries. Auster views this level of antagonism as an essential component of city life. He asserts that as the borough’s inhabitants resort to self-expression, they expunge the harsh realities imposed by contemporary society: Nearly every scene in Blue in the Face is about conflict. The characters are embattled, highly opinionated, relentless in their anger. And yet, when all is said and done, the film is genuinely amusing, and one walks away from it with a feeling of great human warmth. I find that interesting. Perhaps that means that a certain degree of conflict is good for us. Perhaps we need an occasional release from all the high-minded pieties that tell us how we’re supposed to talk to each other. I’m not saying this is so, but it’s definitely a question worth pondering89.

The film’s opening dramatic scene, moreover, replays “ . . . the quintessential New York tale, a story that embodies the social and moral

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dilemmas of contemporary urban life”90. Wren apprehends an escaping thief, and presents him to his intended victim. The belligerent Wren insists that the woman informs the police. At her refusal to prosecute, Wren is incensed. He snatches the retrieved handbag from the woman and awards it to the thief. As the youth easily escapes, the distracted crowd are powerless, and arguably, unwilling to intervene. The woman chastises Wren, and maintains that she offered forgiveness. Wren incredulously replies: “Lady! This is New York”91. These instances of conflict occur throughout the screenplay, and are replayed in an episodic fashion. However, at the euphoric climax, all antagonism has diminished. Indeed, negativity appears erased in favor of a positive commemoration of life in the all-embracing metropolis. IV At 8.46a.m. on September 11, 2001, American Airlines Flight 11, a Boeing 767, impacted with the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Fifteen minutes later, the South Tower was targeted. Over the course of the next hour, an airplane struck the Pentagon, while another crashed into farmland in Pennsylvania, its intended target, the White House. This devastating attack was an eerie reminder for many Americans of the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. The populace initially considered the first crash a momentous accident. With the unrestrained vigor of the successive bombardment, however, many believed that they witnessed the advent of a Third World War. As the immense structure of the World Trade Center collapsed, with almost three thousand fatalities, the incomprehensibility of the devastation prompted many Americans to equate the actual event with a hyper-real simulacrum. As opposed to reality, this bore all the hallmarks of a carefully constructed Hollywood stunt. The televisual image was replayed across the globe, and all sensations of disbelief were dispelled. Rather than meticulous illusion, this was a harsh actuality. An incredulous worldwide television audience of hundreds of millions, witnessed the obliteration of the landmark Twin Towers. In “In the Ruins of the Future,” Don De Lillo responds to almost instantaneous media coverage. De Lillo states: The events of September 11 were covered unstintingly. There was no confusion of roles on TV. The raw event was one thing, the coverage another. The event dominated the medium. It was bright and totalizing and some of us said it was unreal. When we say a thing is unreal, we mean it is too real, a phenomenon so unaccountable, and yet so bound to the power of objective fact that we can’t tilt it to the slant of our perceptions92.

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De Lillo illustrates the hijackers’ intended target, and insists that, as Muslim fundamentalists, they were determined to vanquish the American nation. As such the countless victims in New York and the other locations were regarded as casualties of a ‘Holy War.’ The inhabitants of the metropolis accept and embrace the ethos of capitalism. Therefore, they had become legitimate targets. American influence is regarded as wholly aberrant and the antithesis of the entrenched logic of a rigorous Islamic system of beliefs: It was America that drew their fury. It was the high gloss of our modernity. It was the thrust of our technology. It was our perceived godlessness. It was the blunt force of our foreign policy. It was the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind93.

In the immediate aftermath of the cataclysm, Paul Auster also reflects upon its impact. The impenetrable and eternal vibrancy of the metropolis appears tarnished with an increasing awareness and acceptance of the frailty of human life. Auster associates the World Trade Center with his friend, high-wire artist Philippe Petit, who walked between the towers in 1974. Auster grimly observes that this fantastical arena “ . . . has been turned into a place of death”94. Auster’s daughter Sophie is a high school student in Manhattan, and Auster ponders his proximity to the tragedy: “Less than an hour after she passed under the World Trade Center, the twin towers crumpled to the ground”95. Disaster grips the city, and Auster walks among his neighborhood. The buoyant streets of Brooklyn are silent, with its anguished inhabitants anxious for news of those trapped within the crumbling inferno. Auster contemplates the USA’s reputation as ‘policeman of the world.’ He recognizes that an attack was foreseeable, but is unprepared for the catastrophic immensity of this particular assault. September 11, 2001 seems ingrained within the national consciousness as the defining moment of the evolving millennium: We all knew this could happen. We have been talking about the possibility for years, but now that the tragedy has struck, it’s far worse than anyone ever imagined. The last foreign attack on American soil occurred in 1812. We have no precedent for what has happened today, and the consequences of this assault will no doubt be terrible. More violence, more death, more pain for everyone. And so the twenty-first century finally begins96.

In the wake of the disaster, many claim that New York City has been unalterably affected. The perceived level of assertiveness associated with the

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typical New Yorker has come under intense scrutiny. The metropolis, itself a victim of unparalleled destruction, reveals the collective psyche is fractured, even with empathy extended towards the grieving relatives. The inhabitants of New York City applauded their unsung heroes, and in doing so displayed a concealed vulnerability. Many seem bewildered that their city provoked such fundamental hatred. Ed Vulliamy assesses the multicultural breakdown of the city, and asserts that this was neither an attack upon government nor the logic of capital: It was not some vague America which had friends across the planet that fateful morning, it was a city familiar to almost every citizen of the world with access to a cinema or television; they all have a relationship with New York. People know it as the adolescent city, a cacophonous and multicoloured place where work and play entwine; a hyperactive, aphrodisiac, real-life marriage of heaven and hell. New York wasn’t just a place the world had seen in the movies, it acted out a film of its own97.

The destruction of the World Trade Center resulted in an altered state of consciousness, and Auster was asked to articulate the defining characteristic of city life. In “Underground,” Auster highlights the level of pluralism evident within his hometown. The subway train embodies an independent microcosm. While Peter Brooker refers to peripheral degrees of commonality, Auster is adamant that collective diversity is paramount. Each fractured grouping is nonetheless in possession of a sense of belonging. Due to the ethnic density of the city’s populace, connection is not a prerequisite of city life. Any attempt to achieve this overly lamented parity of esteem would ultimately be an impossibility. Auster boards the bilingual and eclectic train, and states that he revels in this celebration of humanity: Looking across the aisle at one’s fellow passengers and studying their faces. Marvelling at the variety of skin tones and features, floored by the singularity of each person’s nose, each person’s chin, exulting in the infinite shufflings of the human deck98.

Auster subverts the notion of the aggressive and hostile metropolis, moreover, and considers his contemporaries self-possessed. The New Yorkers that Auster encounters are far removed from the stereotypical notion of cynical extroverts. As they escape from the rigor of city life, these individuals are reflective and tranquil. Even the intimacy of the stalled carriage provides a welcome, momentary distraction:

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And then, never for any apparent reason, the lights go out, the fans stop whirring, and everyone sits in silence, waiting for the train to start moving again. Never a word from anyone. Rarely even a sigh. My fellow New Yorkers sit in the dark, waiting with the patience of angels99.

CONCLUSION In his fictional writings, Auster attempts to capture the essence of the contemporary city. The postmodern city has been portrayed as an impersonal and threatening arena, and its ethos encourages skepticism and lack of certainty. As an author, Auster declares that solitude is a prerequisite of the act of writing. However, it can be argued that this desire for solitude is an extension of Auster’s malaise with regard to contemporary existence. In the absence of meaningful connection, the individual is forced to retreat. The interior space of self seems preferable to the harsh reality of the outside world. The citizens are spiritually indifferent, and yearn for some form of meaningful existence. Although the pluralism evident within the city suggests that diversity is welcomed, it is actually the case that connection is achieved solely on a peripheral level. Within Auster’s literary universe there exist ever-increasing instances of contingency, the lack of a definite truth, and a failure to empathize with another’s experiences. The ambiguous city is the arena in which life-changing dramas are enacted. Significantly, the multiple narrative voices of In the Country of Last Things are a product of life in the city, yet Auster implies that ultimately Blume’s authenticity becomes circumspect. In opposition to the negative connotations of postmodernism, with the city viewed as uncontrollable and malignant force, Auster intimates that his hometown is representative of a contemporary urban population center. Auster acknowledges that an increasing number of cities display similar characteristics. Auster accepts that the postmodern metropolis is neither an all-embracing oasis, nor is it necessarily a fractured and oppressive nightmare. In his writings, the habitual sight of untold apathetic misery is consistently juxtaposed with the image of communal expression and spiritual renewal. Auster’s representation, therefore, ensures that he presents a realistic assessment of the pluralistic society that is New York City. Auster’s postmodern conception of city life appears attuned to the ethos of the multicultural metropolis. Rather than yearn for a former opulence associated European sensibilities, Auster depicts the city that he inhabits. Baudrillard and Brooker concentrate upon the negative connotations of the postmodernist ontological space. Auster, however, insists that this all-encompassing depiction relates

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to these critics’ dormant prejudices. Reflective of Auster’s analysis, ‘The Man With Unusual Glasses’ in Blue in the Face implies that, while he experiences a constant and ominous sensation of dread, it is not automatically related to life in the city. It is interesting to observe that, the ‘thronging intimacy’ that Baudrillard associates with Europe, Lou Reed drolly deems as oppressive and incomprehensible: I’m scared in my own apartment. I’m scared twenty-four hours a day. But not necessarily in New York. I actually feel pretty comfortable in New York. I get sacred . . . like in Sweden. You know, it’s kind of empty. They’re all drunk. Everything works. If you stop at a stoplight and don’t turn your engine off, people come over and talk to you about it. You go to the medicine cabinet and open it up, and there’ll be a little poster saying, “In case of suicide, call . . .” You turn on the TV, there’s an ear operation. These things scare me. New York? No100.

Chapter Six

The Authority of Authorship: The Ambiguities of Life-Writing in Leviathan

I Leviathan is a commentary on the ethos of late twentieth-century America, and the novel can be considered Paul Auster’s most overtly political work. Through the persona of Benjamin Sachs, Auster highlights the lack of spirituality evident within contemporary America, and emphasizes the need for institutional change. The forces of capitalism have consumed Auster’s America, and as a consequence, the notion of selfhood has been relegated to the status of a distant memory, which is associated with a distant and more enlightened era. In Leviathan, Auster focuses upon authorship and authority, and the debate between complacency and militancy. The revolutionary heritage of the early USA, once associated with the concepts of liberty and democracy, has been superseded by an unquestioning acceptance of apathy, corruption and materialism. Auster implies that while the contemporary American individual struggles to attach some sort of meaning to daily existence, his understanding of the lives of his American contemporaries fails at a communal, social and political level. In his study of the life and death of the self-styled ‘Phantom of Liberty,’ Auster investigates whether an author can alter the consciousness of his readership. The life of Benjamin Sachs—prisoner of conscience, author, visionary—unravels during the course of the novel. Sachs rejects his literary aspirations, and opts instead for militancy. His actions result in a fraught national debate. Sachs is largely overlooked as an author. As a new American consciousness however, he finally attracts a mass audience. Sachs’s philosophy, ‘actions speak louder than words,’ brings recognition, but ultimately ends with his accidental self-destruction. While Sachs is the protagonist of the novel, Leviathan is not his narrative. Rather, it is that of his friend, Peter Aaron. A writer, Aaron advocates 177

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a belief in the power of words. Aaron provides a fitting eulogy for Sachs, and his intention is to “ . . . explain who he was and give the true story of how he happened to be on that road in northern Wisconsin”1. However, as opposed to an all-powerful author, Aaron is a flawed and ostensibly naïve character. His perception of Sachs seems limited. As the novel progresses, Aaron accepts that there are no definitive certainties, and his biography of Sachs is riddled with ambiguities. This portrait of a complex and contradictory individual, produces a sense of confusion, with Sachs alternatively viewed as enlightened hero or embittered fanatic. Aaron believes that Sachs has experienced some form of mental breakdown, as a direct result of an accidental fall, but also symptomatic of his realization that he—as Benjamin Sachs, rather than the Phantom of Liberty—is unable to instigate social change. As illustrated in the first part of this book, Auster’s autobiographical writings typically constitute a blurring of fact and fiction. Indeed, Auster’s own factual experiences are attributed to the protagonists of his fictional works. Aaron has the same initials and profession as Auster, and elements of Aaron’s life correspond to Auster’s. Like Auster, Aaron attends University College, spends a few years living in France, and subsequently returns to America. Both marry in the mid 1970s and produce a son—Aaron’s named David, Auster’s, Daniel. Their respective marriages end in divorce several years later. Aaron provides a succession of reasons, most notably the pitfalls endured as a struggling author. After his affairs with Fanny Sachs and Maria Turner, Aaron meets his future wife, Iris. Iris’s name is a thinly disguised anagram of Auster’s wife’s name Siri, and the date of their meeting—February 23, 1981—is the exact date that Auster encountered Siri Hustvedt for the first time. Iris provides a sense of clear purpose to Aaron’s life. The couple marry and eventually give birth to a daughter, Sonia, again based upon Auster’s own daughter, Sophie. Aaron’s initial opinion of Iris is that she is, “ . . . a dazzling blonde presence, six feet tall with an exquisite Scandinavian face and the deepest, merriest blue eyes to be found between heaven and hell”2. This description, coupled with Aaron’s allusions to his relationship with his children, suggests that Auster writes from a personal or semi-autobiographical perspective. As Aaron broadly assumes Auster’s profile, it is possible on a surface level to consider the narrator an autobiographical version of the author. Despite any similarities that exist between both men, Auster accentuates his counterpart’s flaws and sense of vulnerability. He self-consciously mocks Aaron’s status as an all-powerful author. For instance, Aaron, while committed to his familial responsibilities, fails in his comprehension of the practicalities of the environment in which he places himself. While his

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wife and children are mentioned, they remain background characters. Iris is conveniently absent at defining moments in the narrative, or, when present, is not privy to Aaron’s innermost thoughts in relation to Sachs: I’m here to write, after all, and if Iris thinks I’m up to my old tricks out in my little shack every day, what harm can come of that? She’ll assume I’m scribbling away on my new novel, and when she sees how much time I’m devoting to it, how much progress is being made from my long hours of work, she’ll feel happy3.

Aaron is an advocate of literature as a means of enlightenment. Although literature seldom reaches a collective mass audience, Aaron believes that irrespective of the inevitable hardships endured, the writer must persevere with his art form. Aaron’s biography of Sachs provides an explanation for his friend’s seemingly inexplicable descent into nothingness. His novel Leviathan is primarily aimed at a select audience. Aaron’s account may alter any misconceptions about Sachs, but ultimately may be irrelevant. The FBI agents possess a preconceived notion of what forces have shaped the mind of a former convict and national dissenter. As such, the representatives of the state are relentless in their pursuit of the individual who perpetrates attacks upon the national ‘leviathan.’ Aaron passes his narrative to agent Harris, and unwittingly opens his own Pandora’s Box. He and others may face arrest on charges of conspiracy and of withholding information. In his desire to defend Sachs’s actions, Aaron is blinkered to the realities of the situation. Aaron’s attempts to comprehend his friend, but ensures that Sachs’s other confidantes become merely characters within Aaron’s novel. Indeed, their aspirations are overlooked in favor of appeasement of Aaron’s own sense of guilt. Aaron states that if life is to have any meaning the individual must leave something behind. Rather than a passive automaton, he must ensure that he exists independently of the status quo. For Aaron, the written word serves as both a form of redemption and a testimony to his individuality. Literary works remain in circulation after the death of their authors, and it is the strange afterlife of authors that continues to influence readerships. The reputations of dead authors help guarantee that their writings remain relevant to subsequent generations: I don’t mean to say that books are more important than life, but the fact is that everyone dies, everyone disappears in the end, and if Sachs had managed to finish his book, there’s a chance it might have outlived him4.

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It is characteristic of Aaron’s inability to comprehend his friend of fifteen years that his firm faith in the written word as a means of salvation, may be misguided. Aaron details the motivation for authorship, yet states that there is never a defined sense of clarity. The literary work remains an enigma to both its creator and intended readership: “Books are born out of ignorance, and if they go on living after they are written, it’s only to the degree that they cannot be understood”5. However, as a readership empathizes with the issues expressed, Aaron subsequently accepts that books can be influential. Indeed, Sachs’s decision is derived in part from his reading of Reed Dimaggio’s dissertation on Alexander Berkman. Aaron is torn between these contradictory positions, and his well-meaning intentions appear to be rendered null and void. While Aaron wishes to enlighten the populace to Sachs’s motives, his compliance with the authorities will ensure that Sachs is briefly remembered as the Phantom of Liberty. Sachs’s unfulfilled social and political mission, then, becomes relegated to the same status as his literary works. Sachs’s assessment of his previous career involves a direct contrast to the viewpoint expressed by Aaron. Sachs visits a second hand bookstore, where he obtains an unsold copy of his own novel The New Colossus. Sachs mocks his earlier idealism, and believes that the concerns of the televisual age have rendered writing obsolete. Sachs comes to the bitter realization that the thoughts and intentions of a succession of authors, he and Aaron included, are now considered irrelevant: There was a mountain of books in front of me, millions of words piled on top of each other, a whole universe of discarded literature—books that people no longer wanted, that had been sold, that had outlived their usefulness6.

In opposition to Aaron’s unquestioning devotion to his literary career, Sachs transforms himself from idealist to realist. He accepts that the written word is for the most part aimed at a select and already enlightened readership. Sachs’s audience share his aspirations, and has become increasingly marginalized over the years. Sachs’s writings, exemplified by concerns in relation to the decline in spirituality in society, are considered obscure. The lives of the vast majority of readers are determined by the practicalities of their daily existences, and they desire entertainment rather than enlightenment. Their opinions are reminiscent of the sentiment expressed by the woman whom Daniel Quinn, in City of Glass, encounters at the railway station. To Quinn’s intense disgust and annoyance, the woman flippantly states that the William

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Wilson tale she is reading is merely a distraction: “It passes the time, I guess. Anyway, it’s no big deal. It’s just a book”7. Aaron believes that the written word can be employed to instigate change. His opinions call into question the role of the author within contemporary society. Aaron argues that authorship entitles the individual to critique his surroundings. His attacks upon the established status quo seem reflective of the fact that he remains focused upon the merits of his art form. Literature becomes an instrument of change, and the author influences an audience, irrespective of whether this audience is the minority in society. Writers who seek mass recognition write for entertainment purposes, and remain unquestionably neutral and apolitical. Aaron asserts that language equals power. He states that those in possession of this ‘language’ have the potential to alter perceptions. However, Aaron is ultimately forced to relinquish his text, for power remains a prerogative of the state. Because the act of writing necessitates that the author requires solitude, Aaron questions whether this desire for solitude epitomizes a means of escape. Aaron seeks sanctuary while engaged in his art form, and as such can ignore reality. Sachs’s death becomes a fictional occurrence rather than a discernible fact. Aaron is ultimately forced to abandon his temporary exile, however, and he must accept the consequences of his actions. His heartfelt testimony forms a symbol of his unrealized flirtation with the destructive path that Sachs has inevitably chosen. Aaron’s faith in the power of language is reflected in his opinions on publishing. His novels ensure that he impacts upon the lives of his readership: “I enter the lives of strangers, and for as long as they have my book, my words are the only reality that exists for them”8. This degree of recognition is alternatively beneficial and disturbing. Aaron informs Harris that critical reaction from his readership has resulted in their assumptions that he has become public property. Aaron intimates that the author’s beliefs can ensure that his life is put in danger. As the author can be castigated and threatened, Auster may refer to the fatwa issued against his friend, Salman Rushdie. In The Red Notebook, Auster states that he receives a letter written by the anonymous ‘Paul Auster.’ The uneasy relationship between an author and his duplicate is explored in Leviathan. Aaron discovers that at least one reader has assumed his literary identity: I discovered that someone had been impersonating me, answering letters in my name, walking into bookstores and autographing my books, hovering like some malignant shadow around the edges of my life9.

It is indicative of Aaron’s ignorance, and his inability to write the definitive biography of Sachs, that he inadvertently provides Harris with the missing

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clue required to identify the Phantom of Liberty. Aaron claims to be the authority on his friend, yet he is ultimately preoccupied with both his thesis on writing and status as an author. Aaron’s lack of awareness ensures that he fails to realize that the impersonator is actually Sachs. Aaron elaborates upon the “malignant shadow” that haunts his existence. As he remains blinkered, he is oblivious to the fact that he employs a thinly disguised metaphor for the Phantom. Aaron indicates that while he is unable to understand Sachs, he simultaneously underestimates Harris. Despite Aaron’s appraisal of the written word, he fails to account for the public reaction that some books merit. As the literary work exists independently of its author, Aaron distances himself from any responsibility or consequences: A book is a mysterious object . . . and once it floats out into the world, anything can happen. All kinds of mischief can be caused, and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. For better or worse, it’s completely out of your control10.

This lack of accountability is coupled with Aaron’s insistence on the enigmatic nature of the written word, and is ultimately suspect. As Aaron’s treatise on Sachs progresses, ambiguity reigns supreme. Aaron’s contradictory opinions of his friend match those in relation to his own beliefs. Aaron asserts that Leviathan has come into being as a consequence of his own ignorance. However, he simultaneously cites his reasons for authorship. Aaron reads The New York Times, and inadvertently chances upon a short article that deals with an explosion in Wisconsin. The identity of the perpetrator, however, remains shrouded in mystery. Aaron recollects his final conversation with Sachs, and the contents of the article confirm his latent premonition: . . . that he was going to kill himself, that one day I would open the newspaper and read that my friend had blown himself up. It was no more than a wild intuition at that point, one of those insane leaps into the void, and yet once the thought entered my head, I couldn’t get rid of it11.

When Sachs’s imagined fate becomes a discernible fact, Aaron is prompted into action. Leviathan is written swiftly, as a lament for his friend’s untimely death, as a justification for his espousal of militant action, and to protect Sachs’s memory, which will become the subject of ridicule, as “ . . . all sorts of lies are going to be told, ugly distortions will circulate”12.

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At first glance, Aaron’s assertion that the author cannot be held responsible for any impact that a book creates seems to relate to his relinquishment of his novel. Aaron enlightens himself to the persona of Sachs. He wishes to unravel the mystery, and more importantly, solve the crime. Aaron details the pitfalls experienced by his friend, and claims that loyalty to Sachs is his only misdemeanor. As the confiscated evidence evidently makes its way into the public domain, the closing words of Leviathan encourage an ambiguous reading of the text. Rather than a draft manuscript, Harris receives the published novel Leviathan. Aaron states: “I handed him the pages of this book”13. Aaron confides in his readership, but whether these readers are the critical voices that denigrate Sachs, or his admiring public, is never disclosed. Aaron is aware that the authorities are now in pursuit of him, and he writes the novel in two months. His introduction and conclusion are added during the six days prior to Harris’s second visit. Aaron insists that the story has by necessity been shortened, and states: “Three-quarters of the way into the second draft (in the middle of the fourth chapter), I was forced to stop writing”14. In contrast to the preceding chapters, the fourth peters out: the disintegration of Sachs’s relationship with Lillian Stern is never fully investigated. Aaron surrenders the text of the novel, and insists that the case is closed. His writing no longer serves any purpose, and the enigma that is Sachs becomes consigned to the position of an obscure and distant memory: Desperate as I was for a resolution, I had to understand that it might never come. You can hold your breath for just so long, after all. Sooner or later, a moment comes when you have to start breathing again—even if the air is tainted, even if you know it will eventually kill you15.

Aaron is unable to surrender the mantle of storyteller, however, and he remains committed to the memory of Sachs. Indeed, he adds a final page to Leviathan after it has been passed to Harris. As Sachs’s death continues to haunt Aaron, this epilogue is intended for himself, as much as for his readers. Sachs must reveal himself to the person he considers a friend, and he confides in Aaron the dynamics of his fraught adopted mission. During their last encounter, Sachs implores Aaron to keep secret the life of the anonymous bomber. Aaron contents himself with the knowledge that he has initially remained faithful to his friend: “Until the moment comes for me to show what I’ve written here, I can comfort myself with the thought that I won’t be breaking my word”16. Aaron is inevitably forced to break his promise to Sachs, but believes that his narrative will counteract the rumors that abound in relation to the Phantom of Liberty’s motives. In response to Sachs’s doubt

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as to his friend’s ability to conceal the secret, Aaron illustrates his own beliefs: “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one. I’m not sure I’ve ever had one to keep”17. Aaron reinforces his advocacy of honesty at all times, and his biography of Sachs exposes the definitive facts. Aaron’s response to Sachs contradicts his stance during the course of the novel, however. The man with no knowledge of secrecy has been involved in two clandestine relationships. Sachs finds a loyal confidante in Maria Turner, but Aaron is ultimately perturbed that Turner, while aware of Sachs’s movements, has failed to share this information. It is possible that Sachs has misjudged Aaron. Perhaps the latter writer of fiction is unable to remain faithful to his word. The extraordinary life that Sachs has led becomes an apt subject for documentation: No matter how wild we think our inventions might be, they can never match the unpredictability of what the real world continually spews forth. This lesson seems inescapable to me now. Anything can happen. And one way or another, it always does18.

During the course of his narrative, Aaron claims that ‘books are born out of ignorance.’ Sachs however, insists that his counterpart Reed Dimaggio has employed the written word as a vehicle in which to articulate his political stance. Dimaggio undertakes a study of the life of the nineteenth-century anarchist, Alexander Berkman, and Sachs believes that Dimaggio supports Berkman’s actions. Like Berkman, Sachs and Dimaggio advocate a belief in social responsibility. Sachs is an author, and Dimaggio, an academic. As such, both have scrutinized the merits of their form of resistance. Their militancy is equated with a level of self-awareness. Sachs is inspired by Dimaggio’s biography of Berkman, and Berkman’s anarchist philosophy becomes a prototype for the militant route that Sachs will come to embrace. Indeed, Sachs emulates Berkman’s stance during the Vietnam War. Sachs honors this instrumental prisoner of conscience, and during his bombing campaign he adopts the pseudonym, Alexander Berkman. Sachs draws one definite conclusion from his reading of Dimaggio’s thesis: militant action when directed at the state is justifiable: Terrorism had its place in the struggle, so to speak. If used correctly, it could be an effective tool for dramatizing the issues at stake, for enlightening the public about the nature of institutional power19.

In Dynamite: The Story of Class Violence in America, Louis Adamic suggests that Berkman is part of an ongoing wider American class struggle.

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Although the nation’s founding fathers promoted an idea of liberty and commonality, Adamic states that pockets of resistance have sought to subvert the structures of domination. Adamic believes that as the struggle continues, forms of protest will become more pronounced, and more violent: The class-war goes on. The underdog in America is getting his vengeance—and this vengeance . . . is becoming nearly as anti-social and inhuman as were the terrible acts . . . which, directly or indirectly, have provoked it20.

Berkman came to prominence during the Homestead Strike of 1892. Henry C. Frick, superintendent of the Carnegie Steel Company, was vehemently opposed to unionized labor, and refused to advocate a belief in the rights of the Iron and Steel Workers. Frick chose to fight the strike, and pledged “ . . . war to the bitter end”21. Frick recruited a three hundred strong militia from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and a battle between the strikers and the militia resulted in ten deaths. The workers won the day, however, and Frick called for assistance from the Governor of Pennsylvania. The workers were put under virtual house arrest, and after four months were forced to accept Frick’s conditions. Berkman learned of Frick’s actions, and armed with a revolver, stormed the superintendent’s office. Adamic views Berkman as a prisoner of conscience whose motivation is determined by social responsibility as opposed to blinkered premeditation. Adamic notes that Berkman’s ‘crime’ is a testimony to, “ . . . social revenge, a blind attempt on the part of a social idealist to help the desperate workers on strike by removing the powerful tyrant who opposed them”22. Adamic refers to Berkman’s Memoirs, in which Berkman states that, after shooting Frick, he immediately felt, a “ . . . strange feeling of shame”23. However, as Berkman favored any form of resistance, his initial dismay was replaced with a sense of pride, and his guilt was considered to be “ . . . so unworthy of a revolutionist”24. Although Frick survived the attempt on his life, the authorities ensured that an act of violence against one of their own merited the most severe punishment. Berkman was sentenced to twenty-two years in prison, and served fifteen. In Leviathan, Auster turns to historical fiction, or, more accurately, to the postmodern ‘life-writing’ of the history of a modern American terrorist in the making. In his fictional representations, Auster may allude to the case of the anonymous and enigmatic Unabomber. Indeed, Sachs and Dimaggio can be considered literary versions of the Unabomber. Born Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber perpetrated a bombing campaign against a range of American institutions between 1978 and 1995. In “Not just a degree but

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despair, damage and death, too,” Alston Chase asserts that Kaczynski’s militancy originated with his education at Harvard University. Chase refers to the education practices adopted by Harvard during the 1950s, and states the “Gen Ed” program was “ . . . designed to explore the degree of anxiety and disintegration in student subjects”25. As Harvard professors challenged this regimented form of teaching, they argued, “ . . . reason was a liberating force and faith mere superstition”26. Therefore, in the absence of universal certainties, emphasis was placed upon the scientific. Chase, a fellow undergraduate student at Harvard, believes that his education has resulted in: . . . a double whammy of pessimism. From humanists, we learnt that science threatens civilisation. From scientists, we learnt that science cannot be stopped. Taken together, they implied that there is no hope. Gen Ed had created what would become a permanent fixture at Harvard and throughout much of academe: the culture of despair27.

Kaczynski was awarded a doctorate in mathematics from Harvard University, and was offered professorship at the University of California at Berkeley. In Leviathan, Reed Dimaggio gains employment at this very institution. Has the fact that Kaczynski previously worked at the University of California at Berkeley influenced and contributed to Dimaggio’s militant stance? Or, is the connection between the men purely coincidental? Kaczynski resigned from his post and retreated into the wilderness. He set up home in a remote cabin near Lincoln, Montana. During the course of his bombing campaign, Kaczynski produced a manifesto entitled “Industrial Society and its Future.” Kaczynski cites his grievances through the medium of literature, and issues a challenge to those who promote technological advances. Kaczynski argues in favor of revolution. He stresses that rather than challenge political and institutional power, he wishes to direct his frustrations against economic and material concerns: We therefore advocate a revolution against the industrial system. This revolution may or may not make use of violence: it may be sudden or it may be a relatively gradual process spanning a few decades. We can’t predict any of that. But we do outline in a very general way the measures that those who hate the industrial system should take in order to prepare the way for a revolution against that form of society. This is not to be a POLITICAL revolution. Its object will be to overthrow not governments but the economic and technological basis of the present society28.

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For Kaczynski, those who favor technological advances contribute to the overall destruction of society. The left, represented by academia, on the other hand, are complacent in their condemnation of global capitalism. Kaczynski suggests that academics direct their attentions towards the creation of a ‘politically correct’ form of language: “Political correctness has its stronghold among university professors, who have secure employment with comfortable salaries, and the majority of whom are heterosexual, white males from middle-class families”29. As Kaczynski advocates a belief in social responsibility and a return to lost spirituality, nature is regarded as the perfect counterbalance to technology. Kaczynski echoes the stance of ‘Transcendental’ author, Henry David Thoreau, and encourages society to turn its attentions towards nature: The Industrial Revolution has radically altered man’s environment and way of life, and it is only to be expected that as technology is increasingly applied to the human body and mind, man himself will be altered as his environment and way of life have been30.

Kaczynski believes that the oppressed masses must challenge the mindset of all existing dominant groupings. He argues that in the absence of revolution, “ . . . social systems will not be adjusted to suit the needs of human beings. Instead, human beings will be adjusted to suit the needs of the system”31. Kaczynski’s targets included universities, airlines, and forestry associations, and the FBI concocted the pseudonym, the Unabomber. Kaczynski maintained that his master plan had been meticulously adhered to. It is the random nature of the explosions, however, that has resulted in three deaths, those of an advertising executive, computer storeowner, and the president of the California Forestry Association. Although many others have been injured, Kaczynski seems unconcerned and argues that his victims all fall into the category of ‘legitimate’ targets. In spite of Kaczynski’s defense of his actions, it can be argued that ultimately his message failed to achieve the desired effect. As Kaczynski created abject terror, the numerous casualties of his indiscriminate bombing campaign felt his impact. The remaining sections of the populace will ignore Kaczynski. They come to view the Unabomber in the same way that Aaron initially views the enigmatic Phantom of Liberty: “ . . . one more transient figure in the annals of American madness”32. Kaczynski’s attention to detail and to a carefully constructed manifesto will eventually lead to his arrest. Kaczynski emulated the stance of the Transcendentalists, and advocated a return to nature. His decision to instigate a ruthless bombing campaign, however, ensures that he ultimately contradicts the merits of peaceful resistance.

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Kaczynski advocated revolution and a return to nature, and may have expressed a salient point. As America has become largely unified in reaction to acts of terrorism, however, Kaczynski’s message has now become irrelevant. As of 2007, twelve years after Kaczynski’s last attack, advances in technology have escalated rather than decreased. On September 11, 2001, Islamic fundamentalists obliterated the New York City World Trade Center. In the aftermath of the destruction, American President George W. Bush detailed his mission to eradicate the so-called ‘axis of evil.’ America invaded Iraq during the Gulf War of 2003 and deposed the Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein. America overruled a plea for clemency by the United Nations, and claimed that it had located Hussein’s notorious, and almost legendary, weapons of mass destruction. Although the promised bounty failed to materialize, the jingoistic Bush could content his people with the reassurance that America was finally in possession of Iraq, and its oil reserves. An air of paranoia grips American society, and during the conflict in Iraq, French fries were patriotically renamed ‘freedom’ fries. American national security is increased to prevent future acts of mass destruction. Moreover, some sections of society regard increased technological innovations as necessary for the continued survival of the country. II Aaron states from the outset that he will provide an accurate account of Sachs’s life and the background to his death. This narrative is based upon personal recollections of Sachs, and each incident is inspired by a factual event: “I can only speak about the things I know, the things I have seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears”33. Aaron initially remains committed to this proviso. However, he discovers that his attempts to unearth the definitive certainties require the help of others in order to fill the gaps. Indeed, his narrative is interspersed with the opinions of both Fanny Sachs and Maria Turner. Lillian Stern dictates events prior to Sachs’s death. Stern speaks to Turner, who in turn relays her story to Aaron. Aaron’s authenticity becomes suspect, therefore, and his biography is littered with assumptions and hearsay. Aaron believes the three women are reliable narrators, and he accepts their statements of fact at face value. Aaron deliberately overlooks the interconnected relationships in existence. Sachs has been married to Fanny, and romantically involved with both Turner and Stern, while Aaron himself has previously had a sexual relationship with Turner, and declared his undying love for Fanny Sachs. Due to past associations, Aaron’s perception of Sachs is well meaning but blinkered. He asserts that there is a possibility that he may have misrepresented his friend and the events in question:

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. . . even though Sachs confided a great deal to me over the years of our friendship, I don’t claim to have more than a partial understanding of who he was. I want to tell the truth about him, to set down these memories as honestly as I can, but I can’t dismiss the possibility that I’m wrong, that the truth is quite different from what I imagine it to be34.

Aaron’s naivety is coupled with the assumption that only he can write this story. His contradictory narrative results in an overwhelming sentiment of ambiguity, “ . . . so much so that the story of Benjamin Sachs quickly evolves into a book-long delineation of the inevitability of storification”35. In “Leviathan: Post Hoc Harmonies,” Arthur Saltzman states, that although Leviathan is ostensibly Auster’s most realistic novel, an evident degree of ambiguity encourages both confusion and skepticism. Therefore, in spite of any claims to realism, Leviathan may be considered on a par with the earlier, and more obvious, postmodern installments of The New York Trilogy. Saltzman argues that: . . . the question of what constitutes reality is rendered more subtle instead of extinguished. Whatever document results from the novelist’s efforts is essentially a record of incomplete transactions whose authority must be taken under advisement36.

Aaron translates his relationship with Fanny Sachs, the coupling of a divorced man and a lonely married woman, into a great love affair. The affair comes to light, and Aaron initially avoids Sachs. Their subsequent meeting becomes reflective of the degree of distance in their relationship. Sachs informs Aaron that the affair will have no repercussions, and indicates that life will continue as before. Aaron is misguided as to Fanny’s intentions, and cannot comprehend the fact that she remains with his rival. Aaron’s ambiguous musings on the complexities of Sachs’s marriage produce no definitive certainties: They had presented me with two versions of the truth, two separate and distinct realities . . . Neither one of them had been out to deceive me; neither one had intentionally lied. In other words, there was no universal truth37.

Aaron fails to comprehend the relationship between Sachs and Fanny. He had previously assumed that they had an ideal marriage. Sachs responds to Aaron’s mistaken beliefs, and states that connection with any individual is

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ultimately impossible: “We never know anything about anyone . . . It’s hard enough keeping track of ourselves. Once it comes to other people, we don’t have a clue”38. It is possible that Fanny sought to extract revenge, because her involvement with Aaron, Sachs’s friend, prompts her husband to curb his adulterous ways. Aaron’s thoughts on the inevitable collapse of his relationship with Fanny reflect the fact that this continues to haunt him: Fanny’s actions become nothing less than extraordinary, a pure and luminous gesture of self-sacrifice. Of all the interpretations I’ve considered over the years, this is the one I like best. That doesn’t mean it’s true, but as long as it could be true, it pleases me to think it is. After eleven years, it’s the only answer that still makes any sense39.

Saltzman critiques Aaron’s musings on the disintegration of his relationship with Fanny Sachs: We immediately recognize in this passage Aaron’s subjective criteria not for the truth but for the story he will settle for: not verifiability so much as shapeliness, not authenticity so much as immunity to authentication and refutation alike. Doubt makes room to ruminate and manoeuvre40.

Rather than clarity, Aaron is solely interested in a sanitized and limited version of the truth. Aaron comments upon his fractured friendship with Sachs: “ . . . what had once been pure and simple between us was now infinitely muddy and complex”41. Irrespective of the friendship that has developed between the two authors, Aaron has formed a separate, and more intimate, bond with Fanny. Fanny rejects Aaron, who in turn is appalled by Sachs’s non-committal stance. The couple had previously been the cornerstone of Aaron’s universe, and their human frailty leads to a crisis of confidence on his part: “Even the strongest were weak, I told myself; even the bravest lacked courage; even the wisest were ignorant”42. It is the act of writing that provides Aaron with a deeper sense of purpose. Due to the disintegration of his relationship with Fanny Sachs, Aaron’s assumptions about life are called into question. As his relationship with Maria Turner turns covert and is exemplified by a sense of control, Aaron sets out to deliberately exile himself from the harsh realities of his existence. Aaron immerses himself in his writing, and his craft provides a sense of salvation. In the absence of meaningful connection with his contemporaries, his writing becomes his raison d’etre:

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I was doing what I had to do, and I was doing it in the only way that was possible for me. Everything else followed from that. It wasn’t that I began to believe in myself so much as that I was inhabited by a sublime indifference. I had become interchangeable with my work, and I accepted that work on its own terms now, understanding that nothing could relieve me of the desire to do it. This was the bedrock epiphany, the illumination in which doubt gradually dissolved. Even if my life fell apart, there would still be something to live for43.

Aaron employs solitude in order to achieve a sense of redemption. His dreams of literary success are eventually realized, and Aaron becomes both aware and indifferent. His relationship with his art form takes precedence. Aaron establishes the fact that he is distanced from the mind of an individual like Sachs, and embraces the stability associated with his literary career. While his counterpart is stimulated by predominant contingent occurrences, Aaron strives for balance. Otherwise his alternative is nihilistic despair: “I was out of control, and I fucked for the same reason that other men drink: to drown my sorrows, to dull my senses, to forget myself ”44. Aaron attempts to emulate Sachs, but is continually relegated to a secondary position. He cannot share his friend’s beliefs, and the idea of imprisonment for a cause is abhorrent. Although Aaron is romantically involved with Turner, he remains an observer. Turner dictates the intricacies of their relationship, and Aaron assumes the role required for each successive meeting. Sachs, by contrast, has an immediate cerebral connection with Turner, and it is she, rather than Aaron, that he confides in. All too often, Aaron returns to his position of passive observer. His comprehension of Sachs is reduced to memories, and the degree of intimacy between both becomes a figment of a previous era: Every time I tried to think about him, my imagination failed me. It was as if Sachs had become a hole in the universe. He was no longer just my missing friend, he was a symptom of my ignorance about all things, an emblem of the unknowable itself45.

Sachs’s ‘disappearance’ is a direct result of his accident. He ponders the fact that his fall has not been an accident, “ . . . so much as some grotesque form of punishment”46. The aftermath of the accident will prompt Sachs to believe that, rather than living, he experiences a posthumous existence. Although Sachs falls from a balcony in Manhattan, he is rescued from physical death upon impact with a clothesline. Sachs is rendered speechless, but ostensibly makes a full recovery. He moves to Vermont and embarks upon his

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second novel, the unfinished Leviathan. Aaron is aware that Sachs has once again immersed himself in writing, and assumes that the incident has all but been erased from his friend’s memory. Aaron subsequently discovers that the accident has had dire repercussions. Sachs’s marriage collapses, and he will eventually encounter Reed Dimaggio. Rather than a forgotten memory, the accident takes on labyrinthine proportions. Sachs seems powerless to prevent this involuntary disintegration: In those few seconds before he hit the ground, it was as if Sachs lost everything. His entire life flew apart in midair, and from that moment until his death four years later, he never put it back together again47.

Sachs craves affection from Maria Turner, yet seems unable to instigate physical contact. As such, Sachs devises a plan of action that will lead to Turner’s seduction of him. Sachs moves onto the narrow balcony, and positions himself on the outward side of the railing. In order to prevent Sachs falling, Turner places her arms around his waist. Their intimacy produces “ . . . something that resembled happiness—a microscopic shudder, a surge of transitory bliss”48. In his desire for ephemeral pleasure, Sachs has not been honest with himself. Although sexual chemistry is evident between him and Turner, this dalliance is dictated strictly on his terms. She will embrace him, and he will respond. Their contact will be the result of coincidence, rather than intention on either part. Sachs admits that this is his modus operandi, yet he continues to follow the logic of his plan. The untimely appearance of the inebriated Agnes Darwin prevents Turner’s adherence to her side of the strange bargain. As Turner is forced to steady herself, Sachs cascades into midair. Any sensation of pleasure is immediately replaced by an overwhelming surge of despair, coupled with awareness: An immense, overpowering rush of conviction, a taste of some ultimate truth. I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. First I realized that I was falling, and then I realized that I was dead. I don’t mean that I sensed I was going to die, I mean that I was already dead. I was a dead man falling through the air, and even though I was technically still alive, I was dead, as dead as a man who’s been buried in his grave . . . I had turned into a corpse . . . I wasn’t there anymore. I had left my body, and for a split second I actually saw myself disappear49.

If the affair leads to a degree of distance between Sachs and Aaron, it is the accident that completely alters their relationship. Sachs becomes

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largely self-obsessed, and alienates the people to whom he has been closest. By contrast, he becomes intimate with relative strangers. Their lives and aspirations seem reminiscent of those of his new persona. The recriminations of his incident continue to haunt Sachs. Sachs meets Aaron several weeks after his release from hospital, and informs his friend that he has drawn some conclusions as to his intentions on that particular night: “ . . . it must mean there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. It must mean that I don’t believe in my life anymore”50. Sachs continued with his misguided flirtation, and he remains appalled at the degree to which he could delude himself. Sachs considers his reckless actions to be symptomatic of the utter disregard with which he views his previous existence. Sachs is disgruntled at his predicament, and asserts that he is fully aware of his motivation. As opposed to clandestine sexual connection, his position on the railing is indicative of the fact that he wished to terminate his existence: “I learned that I didn’t want to live. For reasons that are still impenetrable to me, I climbed onto the railing that night in order to kill myself ”51. His plans do not come to fruition, however, and Sachs is forced to contemplate the direction of his life. His dalliance with Turner and the subsequent aftermath reveal indications of the depth of his unhappiness. As Sachs’s personal and professional lives seem no longer relevant, his encounter with Turner is transformed from a moment of covert intimacy into a defining experience. In the wake of the accident, Sachs forms an intense bond with Turner, whom he considers “ . . . the embodiment of his catastrophe, the central figure in the drama that had precipitated his fall”52. Turner visits Sachs on a daily basis during his convalescence, and arranges for the pair to collaborate professionally. These artistic encounters will have no definitive structure. It is at Turner’s insistence that Sachs cuts his hair, and this incident is documented in a series of photographs. Aaron chances upon Sachs’s aimless stroll through the streets of New York City. He follows his friend but eventually abandons his pursuit. Aaron considers Sachs to be irrecoverably damaged. Contrary to Aaron’s preconceived expectations, there is method in Sachs’s madness. This apparent haphazard ramble is another of Turner’s carefully constructed projects. The accident brings Sachs and Turner together and consequently relegates Aaron to a position in which he no longer assumes the role of confidante. Aaron meets Turner a year before Sachs’s death, and Turner enlightens Aaron as to the nature of the working partnership and subsequent friendship between her and Sachs. Sachs’s estrangement from his wife and the murder of Reed Dimaggio ensure that he seeks out Turner. Aaron insists that Turner’s continued involvement in Sachs’s life ensures that the latter meets his accidental, yet inevitable, demise:

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Aaron reveals his own emotions, and apportions blame to Turner. Aaron believes that Sachs has mistakenly confided in his acquaintance, Turner, rather than his true friend, Aaron. Rather than imprisonment, the circumstances of Dimaggio’s death should serve as evidence in Sachs’s defense. Therefore, Sachs would receive the benefit of the doubt. Aaron maintains that he would have been the sole individual who was able to ensure that his friend faced up to his responsibilities. Aaron’s claim is suspect, however, and is reinforced by the fact that Sachs abandons Aaron. This covert disappearance, moreover, echoes Sachs’s earlier relinquishment of his relationship with Turner. Aaron’s lack of understanding ensures that he continues to believe that he and Sachs retain their initial bond. Aaron senses that his friend has entered an inescapable abyss. Sachs is isolated and his life choices are ultimately detrimental: Knowing what I know now, I can see how little I really understood. I was drawing conclusions from what amounted to partial evidence, basing my response on a cluster of random, observable facts that told only a small piece of the story. If more information had been available to me, I might have had a different picture of what was going on, which might have made me a bit slower to despair54.

Aaron stresses from the outset that to an extent, he was aware of Sachs’s predicament, “ . . . that he was in deep trouble, rushing headlong toward some dark, unnameable disaster”55. However, Aaron is powerless to intervene, and he asserts that Sachs was beyond help. Sachs’s psyche has been determined by the repercussions of events to which his friend is not privy. Aaron extols Sachs’s virtues and believes that the man he knew has disappeared. Sachs has been replaced by a ‘döppelganger.’ He is damaged beyond recognition, and is incapable of independent thought or action: In fifteen years, Sachs travelled from one end of himself to the other, and by the time he came to that last place, I doubt he even knew who he was anymore. So much distance had been covered by then, it wouldn’t have been possible for him to remember where he had begun56.

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The man who was Benjamin Sachs disappears, and his ‘döppelganger’ is forced to begin another life. Sachs even alters his appearance to suit this new role: “He wanted to display his wounds, to announce to the world that these scars were what defined him now”57. Sachs believes that he is a damaged individual, and that his wife should strive for her own future happiness. As the couple are shackled together in a destructive relationship, Sachs insists that their marriage has become a sham. Sachs maintains that his marriage has come to exist within the realms of “ . . . that strange postscript when a couple is neither together nor not together, when the last thing holding you together is the fact that you are apart”58. Sachs is unable to articulate his feelings and wallows in his own despair. Any decisions in respect of the termination of the marriage, therefore, are left firmly in his wife’s hands. Sachs’s psyche is irrecoverably altered, and he must pursue his own path. Although Sachs has been unable to end the marriage, Aaron views his hesitancy as a sign of his magnanimity. His treatment of his wife appears symptomatic of his inner despair: An overly refined conscience, a predisposition toward guilt in the face of his own desires, led a good man to act in curiously underhanded ways, in ways that compromised his own goodness59.

Fanny arranges for Sachs to visit Vermont. She assumes that her husband will return after he has dealt with his own private trauma. Sachs returns home, but his despair is compounded by the fact that Fanny is now romantically involved with someone else. Sachs’s exit from Fanny’s life signifies the inevitable collapse of their relationship, and the final emotive and inadvertent meeting between the couple occurs after Sachs has killed Reed Dimaggio. Sachs remains a virtual recluse in Vermont. After an enforced period of solitude, he decides to familiarize himself with his locale. The repercussions of this decision dictate his future development. Aaron states: “He went out for a walk one afternoon in the middle of September, and the earth suddenly swallowed him up”60. It is indicative of Aaron’s continued admiration for his friend, that he chooses this explanation for Sachs’s disappearance. Sachs is viewed a victim of circumstances, and his subsequent actions relate to his reaction to the encounter with Dimaggio. Sachs loses his bearings, and is rescued by a good-natured local, Dwight McMartin. McMartin similarly comes to the aid of the seemingly stranded Dimaggio. As Dimaggio is engaged in a covert mission, however, McMartin is shot and killed. In frustration, Sachs’s strikes Dimaggio with a baseball bat, and Dimaggio imme-

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diately falls to his death. Sachs insists that he acted in self-defense and is initially unconcerned with the fate of his victim. However, within moments the severity of his crime becomes manifest and he reacts with horror and despair. Sachs unleashes a primal scream. This gut wrenching sound echoes the call of “ . . . a sick, demented animal”61. Sachs is unable to surrender to the authorities, as he believes that his prior criminal record will guarantee future incarceration. He takes Dimaggio’s car, and the open road serves as a form of salvation from his conflicting feelings of awareness and hopelessness: He craved speed. He craved the speed and noise of the car, and now that he was ready, all he wanted was to be gone, to be sitting in the car and driving as fast as he could. Only that would be able to match the tumult inside him. Only that would allow him to silence the roar of terror in his head62.

Sachs reveals the assailant’s identity to Turner and is stunned to discover the connection between Turner and Dimaggio. In an earlier arbitrary escapade Turner chances upon an address book. She attempts to compile a psychological profile of its owner but is disappointed to discover that with one exception, only surnames are listed. Turner directs her energies to the one named individual, Lilli, and is unexpectedly reunited with her long-lost friend, Lillian Stern. Sachs discovers the relationship between the women, and is surprised to learn that Stern is in fact the wife of Reed Dimaggio. Rather than a merciless killer, Dimaggio is revealed to be a mirror counterpart of Sachs. Sachs is opposed to American involvement in Vietnam, and opts for imprisonment. His subsequent career is influenced by his steadfast refusal to fight. Dimaggio, on the other hand, chooses to serve his country. Dimaggio’s military service, moreover, ensures that he leaves “ . . . the army with a new understanding of America, of politics, of his own life”63. Dimaggio argues that as America is associated with corporate greed and corruption at the highest level of government, the nation has become unprincipled. Spirituality has been eroded in favor of materialism. Dimaggio strives to instigate change, and espouses the cause of the left-wing Children of the Planet. Concerted attacks upon the hierarchy are considered more relevant than social commentary: He had been something altogether different: a crazed idealist, a believer in a cause, a person who dreamed of changing the world . . . He and Sachs had stood for the same things. In another time and another place, they might even have been friends64.

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Although Sachs is inspired by the example of Dimaggio, his form of militancy differs from that of his counterpart. Dimaggio acts on behalf of the Children of the Planet, and targets logging camps. Dimaggio’s intention is to ensure that corporations suffer, and their profits diminish as a result of these explosions. As his final aborted mission is disturbed, his reaction is to kill an innocent. Dimaggio’s ideals are shattered as the gormless McMartin slumps to his death. Sachs has taken the life of his would-be ‘döppelganger.’ Aaron asserts that it is indicative of Sachs’s personality that he would attempt to assume Dimaggio’s role. As he claims the life of another disgruntled and reactionary individual, Sachs begins “ . . . to embody an ideal of goodness that would put him in an altogether different relation with himself”65. Sachs and Stern become romantically involved, but their problematic relationship reaches its inevitable conclusion. Although both provide reasons, Aaron, in his subsequent investigation, is unable to uncover the facts. However, it may be the case that Stern is actually Sachs’s accomplice. Both relocate to Chicago, whether together or not is never disclosed. The chapter that deals with the relationship ends abruptly after Stern has slapped her daughter. Aaron is unable to act as Sachs’s biographer. As he attempts to understand the persona of Dimaggio, he experiences similar problems. The details of Dimaggio’s life abound with ambiguity, and Sachs, Turner and Stern provide contradictory accounts. Dimaggio is presented as happily married academic, militant war veteran, renegade member of the Children of the Planet, or, in the opinion of his wife, an abusive bully and undercover government agent. Stern cannot be considered a reliable narrator, however. Similarly, Sachs as an inventor of fiction should not be trusted. The information that Sachs relays is tinged with the desire to mask his clandestine movements. Turner stresses that she is unsure of the facts with regard to Sachs, Stern and Dimaggio. She informs Aaron that he should remain skeptical and ever vigilant: One of these stories might have been real. It was even possible that all of them were real—but then again, it was just as possible that all of them were false66.

Prior to her meeting with Sachs, Turner had undertaken a series of premeditated, occasionally covert, and ostensibly bizarre art projects. Turner is a free spirit, and is motivated solely by whim. Aaron describes Turner’s eccentric and eclectic existence and insists that she cannot be easily classified: “Her work was too nutty for that, too idiosyncratic, too personal to be thought of as belonging to any particular medium or discipline”67. Aaron’s commentary may very well refer to Auster’s conception of his literary project. Auster’s unconventional

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subject matter and his numerous examples of life-writing contribute to his idiosyncratic literary style. Rather than artist in the conventional sense, Turner is a postmodernist. Her overall intention is to illustrate the chaotic nature of human existence, and comment upon the minutiae of diverse individual lives. Turner photographs anonymous strangers, and as she wishes to be observed, she places herself in front of the camera and hires a private detective to watch her every movement. Turner adopts a variety of disguises, and masquerades as a stripper, and in a harrowing encounter, as a prostitute. The logic of her arbitrary master plan extends to the personal. Turner meticulously controls her eating habits, and for intermittent periods even her foodstuffs are color coded. As she applies this same logic to the letters of the alphabet, Turner allows a particular letter to determine all subsequent words of the day: “Whole days would be spent under the spell of b, c, or w”68. In the American edition of Leviathan, Auster pays tribute to artist, Sophie Calle. Calle serves as inspiration for the character of Maria Turner, and Auster states that Calle permitted him to blend elements of fact and fiction within Leviathan. Numerous details of Calle’s life compare with that of her fictional counterpart. In The Rules of the Game, Calle opts for her own blurring of fact and fiction. She includes elements of her life, but adopts certain characteristics obvious to the fictional, and author controlled, Turner. Calle even goes so far as to follow the constraints of her fictional counterpart’s chromatic regime. Calle details the ways in which the fictional Turner’s existence would influence her own factual life choices: In Leviathan, Maria puts herself through the same rituals as I did. But Paul Auster has slipped some rules of his own inventing into his portrait of Maria. In order to bring Maria and myself closer together, I decided to go by the book69.

Calle is intrigued that Auster has been inspired by her example, and decides to turn the tables on the all-powerful author. Calle surrenders to authorial intention and asks Auster to write a ‘fictional’ life story for her. Although Auster refuses to accept complete responsibility for the life of another individual, he reluctantly agrees to impose some form of structure upon Calle’s existence. In The Rules of the Game, Calle documents the logic of the strange request with which she approached Auster: Since in Leviathan, Auster has taken me as a subject, I imagined swapping roles and taking him as the author of my actions. I asked him to invent a fictive character which I would attempt to resemble. I was in

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effect, inviting Paul Auster to do what he wanted with me, for a period of up to a year at most. Auster objected that he did not want to take responsibility for what might happen when I acted out the script he had created for me. Instead, he preferred to send me “Personal Instructions for SC on How to Improve Life in New York City (Because she asked . . . )”70

Auster’s thoughts with regard to his hometown seem to echo his expose of the flux of daily life evident within Auggie Wren’s carefully controlled photographs, as depicted in “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story” and Smoke. Auster suggests that Calle find a specific site within the city. If Calle claims this inanimate structure as her own, it will become an arena of personal development and self-awareness: Go to your spot every day at the same time. Spend an hour watching everything that happens to it, keeping track of everyone who passes by or stops or does anything there. Take notes, take photographs. Make a record of these daily observations and see if you learn anything about the people or the place or yourself. Smile at the people who come there. Whenever possible, talk to them. If you can’t think of anything to say, begin by talking about the weather71.

Auster’s ‘personal instructions’ encourage Calle to be magnanimous and remain open to every eventuality. Auster states that Calle should celebrate the diversity evident within contemporary life, and interact with those with whom she comes in contact. Calle must embrace humanity and ingratiate herself to strangers. Auster intimates that Calle should instigate even supposedly mundane conversations with the diverse inhabitants of the city. It is Calle’s adherence to this simplistic instruction, which will inevitably result in a degree of widespread connection between her and society at large: If you find yourself running out of things to say, bring up the subject of the weather. Cynics regard this as a banal topic, but the fact is that no subject gets people talking faster. Stop and think about it for a moment, and you’ll begin to see a metaphysical, even religious quality to this preoccupation with wind-chill factors and Central Park snowfall accumulations. Weather is the great equaliser72.

Symptomatic of the concerns investigated in Auster’s writings, he alludes to the arbitrary nature of the city’s changing climate. As Auster highlights the

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fact that society is unable to control the random and indifferent elements, he reiterates his investigation of the forces of contingency: The weather makes no distinctions. When it rains on me, it also rains on you. Unlike most of the problems we face, it is not a condition created by man. It comes from nature, or God, or whatever else you want to call the forces in the universe we cannot control73.

III Leviathan is the story of an individual who opts for militancy as opposed to complacency. The novel’s title is borrowed from Sachs’s unfinished manuscript. Aaron claims that the story needs to be written, with the title an homage to his dead friend. Thus, Aaron momentarily assumes responsibility for the life of an other. His unfolding narrative traces Sachs’s rejection of the values that Aaron represents. Aaron is at a loss to account for the fact that he has been abandoned. He attempts to ascertain some degree of clarity in relation to Sachs’s motivation. The novel becomes Aaron’s attempt to explain why Sachs would reinvent himself, and why, more significantly, he would reject authorship. Aaron attributes this life-changing decision to a number of diverse factors—personality, imprisonment, accident—and suggests that Sachs has become a damaged individual. Whether Sachs would have corroborated his version of events or approved of Aaron’s novel, remains open to interpretation. It can be argued that as events follow a logical development, Sachs chooses this covert path for himself. Aaron’s limited comprehension of Sachs ensures that he fails to reach a definitive conclusion in the context of the latter’s espousal of militancy. Sachs is presented as the literal descendent of the Transcendentalists, and his mission is to enlighten the apathetic American populace. Sachs was previously imprisoned for his steadfast refusal to renounce his own system of beliefs. He recognizes that his role as an author has not produced a significant impact. Therefore, it seems logical that he would choose another path. Sachs assumes the mantle of the Phantom of Liberty, and once again reiterates the strength of his convictions. Irrespective of any possible setbacks, his decision appears irreversible. Sachs possesses a problematic relationship with the national ‘leviathan.’ The Statue of Liberty is viewed as a symbol of the inherent hypocrisy evident within the American system of values. As Sachs attacks the various replicas, he issues a challenge to the hierarchy, and insists that change is necessary. His adopted pseudonym is also indicative of his attacks upon the status quo. While the Phantom of Liberty is a haunting enigma, Sachs pours scorn upon

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liberty itself, with this concept now devoid of all substance. Given these mitigating circumstances, Sachs’s choice of target implies a carefully constructed plan of action. However, Aaron remains vaguely non-committal and states that Sachs’s future could not be as easily predicted. Rather than merely destiny, Aaron argues that the Phantom of Liberty has come into existence as a consequence of a series of interconnected and contingent occurrences. Sachs is entrenched in his opposition to the forces of an all-consuming hierarchy. Thus he considers the aspirations of the individual now surplus to requirement. It is this mindset that influences his subsequent actions. Sachs’s refusal to serve in Vietnam is indicative of the degree to which he is prepared to persevere with the logic of his particular cause. Unlike Aaron, who opts out of military service on the grounds of ill health, Sachs is conscripted. He is refused the status of conscientious objector, and is faced with the choice of either a covert escape or public accountability. It is symptomatic of the degree of his conviction, that Sachs favors the latter option. This decision results in incarceration: I didn’t want to run away. I felt I had a responsibility to stand up and tell them what I thought. And I couldn’t do that unless I was willing to put myself on the line74.

Aaron and Sachs become exiles during roughly the same time period. However, each pursues a very different path. Aaron travels to France, and gains employment as a translator. As the intricacies of events prior to Aaron’s friendship with Sachs are largely irrelevant, his past is barely mentioned. It is possible to imagine that the young Aaron shared similar experiences to Auster, the sort documented in both Hand to Mouth and The Red Notebook. Sachs remains in the country of his birth, but his freedom is denied and his existence is regimented. However, comparable to Auster’s exploration of enforced restriction in The Music of Chance, incarceration proves to be beneficial. The isolated Sachs directs his anger and frustrations with the state towards the production of his novel The New Colossus. Through this medium, Sachs is able to survive the hardships associated with prison life. The novel represents a desire for redemption and spiritual rebirth. Sachs argues that this period of isolation has shaped him as an individual. As imprisonment has not had a detrimental impact, Sachs remains committed to his beliefs. Fanny Sachs, however, presents Aaron with an alternative version of this period. She maintains that her husband relegates his experiences, “random beatings, continual harassment and threats, a possible incident of homosexual rape”75, to the innermost recesses of his consciousness.

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The initial rapport between Sachs and Aaron is a forerunner for a relationship of mutual respect between two aspiring authors. They are representatives of the post-war American ‘baby-boomer’ generation, and have come of age during the affluent 1950s and subsequent ‘Camelot era’ of the early 1960s. While progress and conformity are lauded as characteristics associated with the nation’s well being, the concept of freedom has been gradually eroded. Despite outward American expansion, encroaching communism was viewed as a major threat. These attacks upon the status quo would become evident in the 1960s. The advent of the ‘counterculture’ resulted in widespread resistance to the Vietnam War. While an obvious degree of affection and admiration is evident between both men, Aaron is initially in awe of his counterpart. Sachs’s devotion to his craft, coupled with the trials and tribulations he has experienced, lead Aaron to consider him a contemporary hero. Aaron intimates that Sachs is also the definitive American author, “ . . . a man who missed nothing, a man with a thousand wheels turning in his head”76. Sachs’s birth and upbringing serve as precursors for his subsequent career as national commentator. He refers to himself as “‘America’s first Hiroshima baby,’ ‘the original bomb child,’ ‘the first white man to draw breath in the nuclear age’”77. The bombing of Hiroshima was an inaugural event for the post-war generation. This event profoundly affects Sachs’s sense of the advent of the nuclear era. Reflective of this viewpoint, he considers the subsequent global ethos to be unalterably governed by an overwhelming desire for collective annihilation: Sachs often talked about “the bomb.” It was a central fact of the world for him, an ultimate demarcation of the spirit, and in his view it separated us from all the generations in history. Once we acquired the power to destroy ourselves, the very notion of human life had been altered; even the air we breathed was contaminated with the stench of death78.

Sachs’s political aspirations become manifest during the late 1960s. He asserts that these originated with “ . . . one of the turning points of my childhood”79. Sachs recounts a visit to the Statue of Liberty, an incident in fact based upon Auster’s past, and considers this occasion his defining moment. Aaron states that the event has pre-empted Sachs’s ongoing political stance, as well as his decision to assume the mantle of the Phantom of Liberty: . . . looking at it now from the perspective of his whole life, it stands out in special relief—as though it were the announcement of a theme,

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the initial statement of a musical phrase that would go on haunting him until his last moments on earth80.

Sachs’s mother ventures to the Statue’s zenith, and experiences a feeling of intense dizziness. Mrs. Sachs is forced to ease herself down gradually in a sitting position. Sachs is initially oblivious to his mother’s plight, but is disturbed by her high-pitched screams. His mother’s distress, coupled with her subsequent fear of heights, ensures that the impressionable Sachs acquires some form of political enlightenment: “I learned that freedom can be dangerous. If you don’t watch out, it can kill you”81. Aaron asserts that as Sachs has been severely affected by this defining experience, he remains the young and helpless boy. Sachs’s development is retarded due to this initial random and ostensibly insignificant incident. Sachs’s reaction to his mother’s despair ensures that his associations with the Statue of Liberty will forever haunt him. His rage against the hypocrisy evident within the nation is directed solely at this leviathan. The Statue also plays a prominent role in Sachs’s novel The New Colossus. Indeed, Sachs’s accident will occur in its shadow, and during the one-hundredth anniversary celebrations. Aaron extols the virtues associated with the Statue of Liberty. He suggests that this global and iconic figure represents the concepts of freedom and democracy: It represents hope rather than reality, faith rather than facts, and one would be hard-pressed to find a single person willing to denounce the things it stands for: democracy, freedom, equality under the law. It is the best of what America has to offer the world, and however pained one might be by America’s failure to live up to those ideals, the ideals themselves are not in question. They have given comfort to millions. They have instilled the hope in all of us that we might one day live in a better world82.

As Aaron strives to shut out the truth, his ambiguous biography of Benjamin Sachs can be compared to his romanticized description of the Statue of Liberty. Rather than search for authenticity and a sense of clarity, Leviathan advocates a belief in hope rather than reality, faith rather than facts. Aaron largely ignores the emotive first strike of the Phantom of Liberty. Indeed, a year of spontaneous explosions will occur before Aaron will equate Sachs with the Phantom. Sachs’s disappearance occurs in tandem with the appearance of the Phantom of Liberty. Aaron will lament for his friend, yet he never openly accepts the reality of the situation. Aaron insists that he could

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never have imagined that Sachs and the Phantom of Liberty were one and the same. To reach any other conclusion would be to extend the bounds of possibility. Thus Aaron again indicates that he is misguided. Although he views Sachs as a separate entity, he invariably equates Sachs with his alter ego: “The Phantom was a sign of my friend’s absence, a catalyst for personal pain”83. Aaron mentions several of the Phantom’s prophetic messages, such as: “Democracy is not given. It must be fought for every day, or else we run the risk of losing it. The only weapon at our disposal is the Law”84. Aaron states that these messages are Biblical in quality. Once again he displays his naivety. Aaron associates the Phantom of Liberty with his missing friend, and has previously referred to the religious aspect of Sachs’s political stance. These factors taken together, it would be quite possible to recognize that this contemporary prophet and the spiritual, yet disgruntled author are one and the same. Sachs’s disillusionment stems from his own personal and political beliefs: “ . . . political action for him boiled down to a matter of conscience”85. Sachs claims to follow in the footsteps of the nation’s founding cultural fathers. His inspiration, moreover, derives from the example set by nineteenth-century American authors, including Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. Like the earlier projects of Emerson and Thoreau, Sachs advocates personal responsibility and a belief in the self: . . . his politics were nevertheless tinged with something I would call a religious quality, as if political engagement were more than a way of confronting problems in the here and now, but a means to personal salvation as well86.

Reflective of Auster’s beliefs, Leviathan opens with a quotation taken from Emerson: “Every actual state is corrupt.” Emerson, father of the Transcendentalists, expressed his concerns at abuses of institutional power. Emerson was a fervent advocate of abolitionism, and demanded social reform. In “The American Scholar,” Emerson asserts that the independent American author should detail the merits of nature, literature and action, and enlighten the general populace. Sachs latterly pours scorn upon the notion of authorship. It would appear that he supports Emerson’s concerns with regard to the need for activity. In “The American Scholar” Emerson formulates his critique of the attributes associated with scholarship: Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it, he is not yet man. Without it, thought can never ripen into truth. Whilst

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the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of beauty, we can not even see its beauty. Inaction is cowardice, but there can be no scholar without the heroic mind. The preamble of thought, the transition through which it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is action87.

Sachs cites Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience as a primary influence. Aaron insists that this definitive work has resulted in both his friend’s subsequent mission as well as his constant “ . . . attitude of remorseless inner vigilance”88. Civil Disobedience details Thoreau’s concerns with the nature of institutional power. The American government has suppressed responsible individuality. The power structure instead strives to accentuate the values associated with materialism and mercantilism. As such, the notion of America as a ‘democracy’ becomes suspect. Thoreau comments upon existing inequalities in society. He states that the individual must become a counterbalance to the influence of this flawed and negative system: If the injustice is part of the necessary friction of the machine of government, let it go, let it go: perchance it will wear smooth,—certainly the machine will wear out. If the injustice has a spring, or a pulley, or a rope, or a crank, exclusively for itself, then perhaps you may consider whether the remedy will not be worse than the evil; but if it is of such a nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then, I say, break the law. Let your life be a counter friction to stop the machine89.

Sachs’s espousal of militant action can be justified in accordance with Thoreau’s treatise. As Sachs believes that institutional power has become an oppressive and immovable force, it is only fitting that he will attempt to instigate change. In the guise of the Phantom of Liberty, he views himself as the ‘counter friction’ to which Thoreau refers. Thoreau advocates the belief that the ‘true’ American should opt out: “You must live within yourself, and depend upon yourself always tucked up and ready for a start, and not have many affairs”90. Sachs follows Thoreau’s example, and rids himself of all personal associations. The simple logic of his mission ensures that he is selfreliant. Indeed, Sachs’s admiration for Thoreau is such that Aaron believes his friend has actively sought to emulate the stance of his Transcendental mentor. Aaron details the similarities between Sachs and Thoreau, and cites Sachs’s constant adherence to the values promoted by Thoreau: Thoreau was his model, and without the example of Civil Disobedience, I doubt that Sachs would have turned out as he did . . . Once, when

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Sachs previously critiques the ethos of the American nation in his postmodern novel The New Colossus. Aaron states that Sachs borrows liberally from a variety of genres. Sachs’s narrative technique contributes to an overriding sense of uncertainty, and Aaron suggests that Sachs’s readership is constantly and deliberately challenged: Sachs continually throws the reader off guard, mixing so many genres and styles to tell his story that the book begins to resemble a pinball machine, a fabulous contraption with blinking lights and ninety-eight different sound effects92.

Sachs resorts to historical-fiction, and his tale is an American epic. As factual, fictional and literary characters co-exist, Sachs’s historical narrative can be seen as an example of ‘historiographic metafiction’ as defined by Linda Hutcheon in A Poetics of Postmodernism. Hutcheon states: “historiographic metafiction plays upon the truth and lies of the historical record”93. Emma Lazarus, author of “The New Colossus,” appears as a character in Sachs’s novel. Lazarus’s poem was originally recited at the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. The closing lines of the poem are engraved on the pedestal of the statue. These words have been globally recognized as the ‘American’ badge of honor: Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!94

Aaron again emphasizes his naivety and preoccupation with words. Although he details the intricacies of Sachs’s novel, he fails to account for his friend’s committed espousal of militancy. Sachs writes his novel in prison. The characterization of Lazarus, coupled with his choice of title, The New Colossus, represents

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Sachs’s disillusionment with the American concept of liberty. Lazarus travels to Concord, Massachusetts, and meets Thoreau’s friend and biographer, Ellery Channing. Channing presents Lazarus with Thoreau’s pocket compass. Sachs is a disciple of Thoreau, and Aaron believes that Sachs has been influenced by Thoreau’s transcendental philosophy. While not a character in the novel, Thoreau remains an essential presence. Indeed, Aaron intimates that Thoreau’s absence appears a telling portent of Sachs’s future career path: Although it isn’t said in so many words, the message couldn’t be clearer. America has lost its way. Thoreau was the one man who could read the compass for us, and now that he is gone, we have no hope of finding ourselves again95.

In his writings, Sachs maintains that the USA has been built upon revolution and reaction to a corrupt system of governance. As such, these values continue to be required if the nation is to survive. The right insists that the concepts of revolution and individuality are detrimental to American development. In the interests of national harmony, dissenting voices are considered negative influences. With the widespread suppression of these reactionary, yet arguably ‘American’ values, the status quo continues to reinforce its power base. Thus, while Sachs laments the nation’s irrecoverably lost spirituality, the hierarchy as represented by FBI agents Harris and Worthy, consider Sachs a threat. Sachs’s antiquated beliefs seem a throwback to a bygone era, and in the face of an overwhelming acceptance of materialism, appear the antithesis of American nationhood. Aaron suggests that in contemporary America, “ . . . a climate of selfishness and intolerance, of moronic, chest-pounding Americanism”96 predominates. Society dictates that an insular form of thought will enhance the status of the nation. As each American becomes more introverted, the notion of a unified collective is relegated to distant memory. Thus, the nation requires change and a return to bygone values. Sachs questions the author’s role in society and takes this concept to its logical conclusion. His message is ignored, and Sachs accuses himself of procrastination. Sachs realizes that he has unleashed concerted, yet misguided attacks upon the status quo. As oppressive outside forces determine his psyche, Sachs becomes a shadow of his former self. He is as apathetic as the society he attempts to enlighten: I’d never lifted a finger for anything. I’d sat around grumbling and complaining for the past fifteen years, but for all my self-righteous opinions and embattled stances, I’d never put myself on the line97.

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Sachs’s mission as a writer has failed to achieve the desired effect. He believes that authorship encompasses a relinquishing of any accountability. The author critiques his environment, but at the same time embraces both the solitude and relative security associated with his profession. The author can advocate reform. However, his failure to make a significant contribution results in the fact that his words appear both insincere and hollow. Those who become active participants in a struggle display the strength of their convictions, and their deeds become synonymous with their words. It is through militancy that Sachs finally makes his mark. As this cause is a precursor to his journey of self-discovery, he is reunited with a credible sense of his self worth: All of a sudden, my life seemed to make sense to me. Not just the past few months, but my whole life, all the way back to the beginning. It was a miraculous confluence, a startling conjunction of motives and ambitions. I had found the unifying principle, and this one idea would bring all the broken pieces of myself together. For the first time in my life, I would be whole98.

It is symptomatic of Sachs’s political beliefs and his problematic relationship with the Statue, that he views the leviathan synonymous with America itself as his prime target. Sachs targets replicas of the Statue of Liberty. As his compatriots gain an awareness of the corruption rife within government, Sachs’s intention is to pour scorn upon the concept of liberty. The American nation promotes materialist values, and imposes its will upon both its citizens and foreign powers. The Statue of Liberty is employed to reinforce the fact that any suppression of individual free will is justified. As America assumes the role of policeman of the world, the concept of liberty has been reduced to the level of parody. Indeed, the nation’s inhabitants pay lip service to a symbol that no longer serves any purpose. In the face of greed and materialism, Sachs observes his compatriots become complacent. The majority in society assert that selfishness is considered an unquestioning aspect of the national consciousness. Sachs is content that his reinvention has achieved more in real terms than his writings ever could. His spiritual rebirth indicates that he no longer requires, and may be unable to sustain, meaningful connection or intimacy: As long as he could keep it up, he was willing to face any inconvenience, to gut his way through any hardship. It was the kind of thing a fanatic would say, I later realized, an admission that he didn’t need a life of his own anymore99.

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As time passes, the bomber will seize the nation’s imagination. Sections of society express outright condemnation, while others insist that a salient point is being expressed. Sachs delivers messages to various newspapers and radio stations. He becomes the discerning voice of the nation, and reiterates the sentiment expressed in his writings: He simply wanted America to look after itself and mend its ways. In that sense, there was something almost Biblical about his exhortations, and after a while he began to sound less like a political revolutionary than some anguished, soft-spoken prophet100.

Despite initial skepticism, Aaron begins to recognize and empathize with the Phantom of Liberty. The concerted attacks upon the national symbol are symptomatic of immense global changes. Student protests occurred in Tienanmen Square in the People’s Republic of China in 1989, while Eastern Europe witnessed the collapse of communism in 1990 and 1991. The Phantom brings the concept of liberty into the public arena, and his influence extends beyond America. His message reaches all those who are oppressed by corrupted institutional power: He had caused a disturbance somewhere deep inside the earth, and the waves were now beginning to rise to the surface, touching every part of the ground at once. Something had happened, something new was in the air, and there were days that spring when I walked through the city and almost imagined that I could feel the sidewalks vibrating under my feet101.

Sachs’s campaign intensifies and he receives widespread support. Dissenting voices demand American society listens to this “ . . . underground folk hero”102. The Phantom of Liberty is alternatively considered man of the people or national scourge. As he becomes a public presence, his opinions are relayed to those who would ordinarily view the writings of Benjamin Sachs as elitist. Sachs’s mission is carefully constructed, and he meticulously ensures that no one will inadvertently become caught up in the explosions. With the first casualty, he will have failed. Sachs prepares his final bomb in Wisconsin, and the bomb explodes during construction. Sachs’s concern for the well being of others and attention to detail, ultimately results in his own death. Sachs becomes the first victim of the Phantom of Liberty, and his master plan fails to achieve its desired effect. Sachs was unable to reach his intended mass audience through literature. As an anonymous specter he

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enters the consciousness of the nation, and finally achieves his sought after goal. It is ironic then that his life comes to an abrupt end. Recognition again escapes Sachs, and his honorable intentions are rendered null and void. Auster, through the persona of Aaron, would appear to support or at least to sympathize with Sachs’s actions. Terrorism seems justified when it is directed against the concept of institutional power, rather than at those who cannot be held accountable for the policies enforced by the ruling hierarchy. CONCLUSION The degree of ambiguity evident within Leviathan raises a number of complex issues. Aaron states that he is unable to act as Sachs’s biographer. However, he feels morally obligated to assume this role. As a writer of fiction, Aaron specializes in literary gamesmanship. His story documents the extraordinary life of a contemporary, yet ultimately damaged national hero. Although Aaron presents himself as an ostensibly blinkered narrator, Sachs’s revelations come as no real surprise. Aaron is aware that his friend will recount some outlandish tale, and he becomes a willing audience. Sachs’s narrative surpasses the bounds of Aaron’s preconceptions, however: “It wasn’t that I was expecting him to tell this particular story, but I knew that it would be something like it”103. While the Statue of Liberty is Sachs’s personal leviathan, the man who was Benjamin Sachs fills this role for Aaron. Sachs craved anonymity, and his death offers a fitting end to a life latterly associated with destruction. Sachs does not seek public recognition. Rather, he is interested in arousing the national consciousness. The dead are incapable of telling stories. Therefore it is the responsibility of the living to take up this challenge. This task serves as motivation for Aaron, but he continually alludes to the fact that he is nothing other than a naïve ‘storyteller.’ The ambiguous details of the novel can provoke alternative readings. It is possible that Aaron’s attempt to disguise the truth, and his knowledge of Sachs’s movements, is more pronounced than he is prepared to reveal. Sachs is the bomber, Turner and Stern are accomplices to his actions, while Aaron remains a rejected friend. Indeed, Aaron’s awareness stems from his interaction with others. As Aaron states that he may have misrepresented the facts, he is playing games with the authorities. His novel Leviathan appears ambiguous enough to be considered inadmissible evidence. Aaron is so preoccupied with Sachs’s untimely death that he may have created a fiction. The damaged Sachs who opts for militancy may bear little or no resemblance to Aaron’s friend. The novel is a testimony to the life of Sachs, and allows Aaron a vehicle to ponder whether his friend can be held solely accountable for his actions. Sachs’s stance mandates and encourages dissent, yet Aaron investigates the outside forces that

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have shaped Sachs as an individual. Therefore, rather than Sachs, the nation, with its acceptance of a corrupted system of values, is to blame. While the author’s position in society is guaranteed, he must also accept his share of the blame. Indeed, Aaron’s musings are indicative of the fact that ultimately he has failed to comprehend the intricacies of human connection. More significantly, in his role as observer, Aaron has abandoned his friend. At the close of Leviathan, a supposed investigation of the life and death of Benjamin Sachs, the narrator, Peter Aaron, and the reader, are forced to question whether the narrative has accurately presented the definitive facts. Aaron’s continual disclaimers encourage an ambiguous reading, and the investigation is relegated to the status of mystery. Despite Sachs’s insistence on anonymity, he decides to autograph Aaron’s discarded novels. These books are located in a variety of second hand bookstores scattered throughout the USA. As such, it is entirely probable that, without the intervention of the FBI, Aaron would never have become aware that someone had impersonated him. Although Aaron states that Sachs’s actions are indicative of the degree to which he misses his friend, it may be the case that Sachs wanted to be apprehended. Leviathan can be considered either an attempt on Aaron’s part to comprehend and defend his friend’s actions or a cleverly constructed work of self-deceptive historical fiction. Aaron creates a story based upon elements of Sachs’s life. This story is intended for publication, and the author does not wish to disappoint his readership. As opposed to the stale minutiae of the life of a disgruntled and cynical writer, Aaron depicts the extraordinary existence of the definitive American. Sachs’s goals are synonymous with those formerly associated with the social foundation and cultural articulation of the American nation. With Leviathan, Paul Auster resorts to historical fiction, and examines the motivation behind the actions of a literary version of a modern American terrorist. As Saltzman observes, Leviathan initially appears to constitute Auster’s most realistic novel. However, it can be seen that Auster returns to territory previously explored in The New York Trilogy. Auster’s fictional writings address a recurrent set of themes and preoccupations. Auster questions whether it is actually possible to know, and as a consequence, write about another. Auster himself is unable to document the life of his father Samuel in “Portrait of an Invisible Man,” the first book of The Invention of Solitude. Aaron attempts to portray the persona of Benjamin Sachs, but achieves limited success. Again Auster intimates that each individual stands alone, and appears unable to understand those to whom they are closest. As such, Auster indicates that a writer of fiction is not in a position to write from a factual perspective. The author’s primary concern, therefore, remains the creation of fiction and the open play of story.

Notes

NOTES TO CHAPTER ONE 1. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986), 184. 2. Arnold Toynbee, A Study of History (London: Oxford University Press, 1954), 338. 3. Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity (Durham: Duke University Press, 1987), 135–136. 4. Lloyd Spencer, “Postmodernism, Modernity and the Tradition of Dissent,” in The Icon Critical Dictionary of Postmodern Thought, ed. Stuart Sim (London: Icon Books, 1998), 161–162. 5. Stuart Sim, “Postmodernism and Philosophy.” Ibid, 3. 6. Ibid, 9–10. 7. Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1979), xxv. 8. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism and Consumer Society,” in Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (London and Sydney: Pluto Press, 1985), 113. 9. Ihab Hassan, The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1987), 87. 10. Ibid, 44–45. 11. Ibid, 41. 12. Ibid, 43. 13. Ibid, 40. 14. Todd Gitlin, “Postmodernism: What Are They Talking About,” in The Postmodern Presence, ed. Arthur Asa Berger (Walnut Creek: AltaMira, 1998), 58. 15. Ibid, 59. 16. Ibid, 58. 17. Ibid, 62. 18. Huyssen, 196.

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214 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

Notes to Chapter One Ibid, 178. Ibid, 180. Calinescu, 312. Ibid, 296–297. Ibid, 297. Ibid, 301. Ibid, 301. Ibid, 300. Christopher Butler, After the Wake: An Essay on the Contemporary AvantGarde (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 39. Calinescu, 300. Ibid, 269. Ibid, 299. Ibid, 269. Paul Auster, The Invention of Solitude (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 146. Calinescu, 303. Auster, Hand to Mouth (London: Faber & Faber, 1997), 14. Ibid, 15. Ibid, 95. Fred Setterberg, “The Multi Channel World of Jerzy Kosinski,” in Ampersand March/April 1980, 13. Paul John Eakin, Fictions in Autobiography (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 182. Ibid, 182. Ibid, 181. Jameson, 117. Ibid, 119. The Invention of Solitude, 81. Ibid, 81. Ibid, 124. Ibid, 138. Ibid, 138. Derek Rubin, ““The Hunger Must Be Preserved at All Cost’: A Reading of The Invention of Solitude,” in Beyond the Red Notebook, ed. Dennis Barone (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 66. The Invention of Solitude, 139. Ibid, 98. Ibid, 83. Ibid, 79. Hassan, 219. Auster, The New York Trilogy: City of Glass, Ghosts, The Locked Room (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 147. Auster, In the Country of Last Things (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 1.

Notes to Chapter One 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93.

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The Invention of Solitude, 81. In the Country of Last Things, 38. The Invention of Solitude, 88. Peter Childs, Modernism (London: Routledge, 2000), 3. Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own (London: Bloomsbury Press Ltd., (1929), 1993, 2. The Art of Hunger, 24–25. Childs, 4. Ibid, 22. Ibid, 211. Ibid, 76. Auster, “Interview with Larry McCaffrey and Sinda Gregory,” in The Art of Hunger, 296. Barone, 14. Calinescu, 303–304. Auster, Mr. Vertigo (London: Faber & Faber, 1994), 3. Ibid, 41–42. Ibid, 228–229. Ibid, 241. Ibid, 253. Ibid, 264. Auster, Hand to Mouth (London: Faber & Faber, 1997), 47. Mr. Vertigo, 275. Ibid, 84. Ibid, 275. The Art of Hunger, 257. Barone, 20. Ibid, 21. Ibid, 5. Auster, Timbuktu (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1999), 65–66. Auster, “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story,” in Smoke and Blue in the Face: Two Films (London: Faber & Faber, 1995), 151. Ibid, 155. Ibid, 152. Ibid, 156. Auster, “Interview with Annette Insdorf,” in Smoke and Blue in the Face, 12. Smoke and Blue in the Face, 140. Tom Waits, “Innocent When You Dream (78),” in Beautiful Maladies: The Island Years (Hollywood: Island Records, 1992). Smoke and Blue in the Face, 13. Ibid, 149. Ibid, 149.

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Notes to Chapter Two

94. Ibid, 3. 95. Barone, 5.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWO 1. Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 143–144. 2. Auster, Moon Palace (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 80. 3. Auster, “Interview with Larry McCaffrey and Sinda Gregory,” in The Art of Hunger (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 288–289. 4. Ibid, 287–288. 5. David Ruelle, Chance and Chaos (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1991), 29. 6. Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity (Durham: Duke University Press, 1987, 270. 7. Jacques Monod, Chance and Necessity trans. Austryn Wainhouse (New York: Vintage Books, 1972), 114. 8. Ibid, 114. 9. Ibid, 114. 10. Ibid, 114. 11. Calinescu, 270. 12. Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1979), xxiii. 13. Ibid, 57. 14. Ibid, xxiv. 15. Ibid, 57. 16. Ibid, 57. 17. Ihab Hassan, The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1987), 168. 18. Lyotard, 61. 19. Richard Rorty, Contingency, irony, and solidarity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 22. 20. Ibid, 26. 21. Zygmunt Bauman, “Postmodernity, or Living with Ambivalence,” in A Postmodern Reader, ed. Joseph Natoli and Linda Hutcheon (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 9. 22. Ibid, 15. 23. Ibid, 16. 24. Rorty, 28. 25. Barry Lewis, “Postmodernism and Literature,” in The Icon Critical Dictionary of Postmodern Thought, ed. Stuart Sim (London: Icon Books, 1998), 128. 26. The Art of Hunger, 289.

Notes to Chapter Two 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

217

Ibid, 311. Hassan, 70. Ibid, 70. Auster, The Invention of Solitude (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 261. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (London: Routledge, 1991), 123. The Art of Hunger, 288. Stuart Sim, “Postmodernism and Philosophy,” in The Icon Critical Dictionary of Postmodern Thought, 5. Auster, The Music of Chance (London: Faber & Faber, 1991), 73. The Art of Hunger (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 374. Ibid, 375. Ibid, 376. Ibid, 376. Ibid, 377. Ibid, 378. Ibid, 379. Ibid, 362. Ibid, 362. Ibid, 343. Ibid, Selected Poems (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 41. Ibid, 41. Ibid, 41. Ibid, The Art of Hunger, 352. Ibid, 352. Brian G. Caraher,”The Poetics of Baseball: An American Domestication of the Mathematically Sublime” in American Studies 32:1 (Spring 1991), 96. Auster, Moon Palace, 62. Ibid, The Art of Hunger, 358. Ibid, 356. Ibid, 290. Ibid, 365. Ibid, 367. Ibid, 367. Ibid, 393. Ibid, 394. Ibid, 394. Ibid, 395. Ibid, 395. Auster, True Tales of American Life (London: Faber & Faber, 2001), xv-xvi. Ibid, xix. Ibid, 3. Ibid, xvii-xviii.

218

Notes to Chapter Three

67. Tim Woods, ““The Music of Chance: Aleatorical (Dis)harmonies Within ‘The City of the World’” in Beyond the Red Notebook ed. Dennis Barone (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 149. 68. Auster, The Music of Chance (London: Faber & Faber, 1991), 7. 69. Ibid, 2. 70. Ibid, 14. 71. Ibid, 1. 72. Ibid, 1. 73. Ibid, 36. 74. Ibid, 49. 75. Ibid, 32. 76. Ibid, 37. 77. Ibid, 70. 78. Ibid, 72. 79. Ibid, 74. 80. Ibid, 80. 81. Ibid, 87. 82. Ibid, 138. 83. Ibid, 139. 84. Ibid, 116. 85. Ibid, 80. 86. Ibid, 144. 87. Ibid, 145. 88. Woods, 145. 89. The Music of Chance, 171. 90. Ibid, 177. 91. Ibid, 6. 92. Auster, “Interview with Mark Irwin,” in The Art of Hunger, 328. 93. Ibid, The Music of Chance, 110. 94. The Art of Hunger, 332–333. 95. Ibid, The Music of Chance, 53. 96. Ibid, 53. 97. Ibid, 54. 98. Ibid, 155. 99. Ibid, 202. 100. Ibid, 10. 101. Ibid, 216–217. 102. Woods, 148.

NOTES TO CHAPTER THREE 1. Paul Auster, “Interview with Larry McCaffrey and Sinda Gregory,” in The Art of Hunger (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 296.

Notes to Chapter Three 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

219

Ibid, Moon Palace (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 7. Ibid, “Interview with Joseph Mallia,” in The Art of Hunger, 285. The Art of Hunger, 323. Moon Palace, 183. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (London: Routledge, 1991), 110. Steven Weisenburger, “Inside Moon Palace” in Beyond the Red Notebook ed. Dennis Barone (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 139. Georg Lukacz, The Historical Novel trans. Hannah Mitchell and Stanley Mitchell (London: Merlin, 1962), 59. Auster, The Invention of Solitude (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 52. Charles Russell, “The Context of the Concept,” in Romanticism, Modernism, Postmodernism ed. Harry R. Gavin (London: Associated University Press, 1980), 192. Hutcheon, 11. The Art of Hunger, 312. The Invention of Solitude, 147. Ibid, 147–148. The Art of Hunger, 307. Ibid, 313. The Invention of Solitude, 157. Ibid, 121. The Art of Hunger, 324. Moon Palace, 61. Ibid, 31. David Wyatt, Out of the Sixties: Storytelling and the Vietnam Generation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 1. Ibid, 195. Auster, Hand to Mouth (London: Faber & Faber, 1997), 47. Moon Palace, 25. Ibid, 75. Ibid, 80. Ibid, 81. Ibid, 25. Weisenburger, 130. Moon Palace, 25. Hand to Mouth, 34. The Art of Hunger, 291. Moon Palace, 3–4. Ibid, 6. Ibid, 306. Ibid, 6. Ibid, 5.

220 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

Notes to Chapter Three Ibid, 17. The Art of Hunger, 322. Moon Palace, 14. The Art of Hunger, 315. Moon Palace, 126. Ibid, 19. Ibid, 21. The Art of Hunger, 324. Moon Palace, 63. Ibid, 20–21. Ibid, 54. Ibid, 30. Ibid, 50–51. The Art of Hunger.11. Ibid, 12. Ibid, 20. Moon Palace, 67. The Art of Hunger, 14. Ibid, 20. Moon Palace, 1. Ibid, 50. Ibid, 239. Ibid, 106. Agnes Heller, “From Hermeneutics in Social Science towards a Hermeneutics of Social Science,” in Theory and Society 1989 (18), 291. Zygmunt Bauman, “Postmodernity, or Living with Ambivalence, “ in A Postmodern Reader ed. Joseph Natoli and Linda Hutcheon (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 15. Moon Palace, 162. Ibid, 162. Ibid, 165. Ibid, 69. Ibid, 181. Ibid, 184–185. Ibid, 104–105. Ibid, 217. Ibid, 220. Ibid, 152. Ibid, 4. Ibid, 253. Ibid, 242. Ibid, 242. Ibid 306.

Notes to Chapter Four

221

79. The Invention of Solitude, 33. 80. Ibid, 35. 81. Ibid, 50. 82. Ibid, 36. 83. Ibid, 35. 84. Ibid, 48. 85. Ibid, 49. 86. Ibid, 34. 87. Ibid, 36. 88. Ibid, 15. 89. Ibid, 16–17. 90. Ibid, 16. 91. Ibid, 81. 92. Ibid, 92. 93. Ibid, 92. 94. Auster, Selected Poems (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 92. 95. Ibid, 92. 96. The Invention of Solitude, 5. 97. Ibid, 6. 98. Ibid, 7. 99. Ibid, 61. 100. Ibid, 19–20. 101. Auster, Timbuktu (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1999), 15. 102. Ibid, 15. 103. Auster, True Tales of American Life (London: Faber & Faber, 2001), 226. 104. The Art of Hunger, 105. Ibid, 325.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR 1. Paul Auster, The New York Trilogy: City of Glass, Ghosts, The Locked Room (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 5. 2. Ibid, 9. 3. Ibid, 9. 4. Ibid, 50. 5. Ibid, 50–51. 6. Ibid, 47–48. 7. Ibid, 48–49. 8. Marshall Berman, “Looking at our City,” in In Search of New York ed. Jim Sleeper (New Brunswick, New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 1989), 21. 9. The New York Trilogy, 125. 10. Ibid, 3–4. 11. Ibid, 4.

222 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

Notes to Chapter Four Ibid, 4. Ibid, 78. Ibid, 60. Ibid, 69. Ibid, 70. Ibid, 71. Ibid, 71. Ibid, 71. Ibid, 58. Ibid, 4. Ibid, 68. Peter Brooker, New York Fictions: Modernism, Postmodernism, The New Modern (London: Longman, 1996), 220. The New York Trilogy, 91. Ibid, 56. Ibid, 56. Ibid, 54. Ibid, 50. Ibid, 108. Ibid, 110. Ibid, 109. Ibid, 106. Ibid, 108. Ibid, 131. Ibid, 132. Ibid, 85. Auster, The Invention of Solitude (London: Faber & Faber, 1988) 81–82. Ibid, 83. The New York Trilogy, 149. Ibid, 149. Ibid, 151. The Invention of Solitude, 136. Ibid, 136. The New York Trilogy, 142. Ibid, 146. Ibid, 138. Ibid, 169. Ibid, 151. Ibid, 196. Ibid, 162. Ibid, 165. Ibid, 153. Ibid, 162.

Notes to Chapter Four 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94.

223

Ibid, 162. Ibid, 181. Ibid, 194. Ibid, 193. Ibid, 195. Ibid, 195. Ibid, 146. Ibid, 145. Ibid, 147–148. Ibid, 188–189. Auster, Selected Poems (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 92. The Invention of Solitude, 75. The New York Trilogy, 162. Ibid, 163. Ibid, 163. Ibid, 163. Ibid, 163. Ibid, 163. Mark Ford, “Inventions of Solitude: Thoreau and Auster,” in Journal of American Studies 1999, 33 (2): 204. The New York Trilogy, 143. Ford, 207. The New York Trilogy, 177–178. Ibid, 173. Ibid, 175. Auster, “Interview with Larry McCaffrey and Sinda Gregory,” in The Art of Hunger (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 310. The New York Trilogy, 175. Ibid, 185. The Art of Hunger, 296. Auster, “Interview with Joseph Mallia,” in The Art of Hunger, 282. The Art of Hunger, 308. The New York Trilogy, 207. Ibid, 208. Ibid, 201. Ibid, 208. Ibid, 222–223. Ibid, 207. Ibid, 208. Ibid, 236. Ibid, 236. Auster, Hand to Mouth (London: Faber & Faber, 1997), 46–47. The New York Trilogy, 308.

224

Notes to Chapter Five

95. Ibid, 310. 96. Ibid, 251. 97. Ibid, 199. 98. Ibid, 308. 99. Ibid, 235. 100. Ibid, 203–204. 101. The Invention of Solitude, 25. 102. The New York Trilogy, 250. 103. Ibid, 249. 104. Ibid, 261. 105. Ibid, 261. 106. Ibid, 266. 107. Ibid, 266. 108. Ibid, 267. 109. Ibid, 294. 110. Ibid, 293. 111. Ibid, 247. 112. Ibid, 296. 113. Ibid, 298. 114. Ibid, 309. 115. Ibid, 294. 116. Ibid, 293. 117. Ibid, 314. 118. Ibid, 225. 119. Ibid, 314. 120. The Art of Hunger, 295.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FIVE 1. Elisabeth Wesseling, “In the Country of Last Things: Paul Auster’s Parable of the Apocalypse,” in Neophilologus 1991 Oct; 75 (4): 497. 2. Paul Auster, The New York Trilogy: City of Glass, Ghosts, The Locked Room (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 78. 3. Ibid, Moon Palace (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 56. 4. Kenneth Thompson, “Identity and Belief ” in Culture: The United States in the Twentieth-Century ed. Jeremy Mitchell and Richard Maidment (Sevenoaks: Open University Press, 1994), 20. 5. David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 48. 6. Ibid, New Statesman 30 Sep. 1988: 33. 7. Peter Marcuse, “Not Chaos, but Walls: Postmodernism and the Partitioned City” in Postmodern Cities and Spaces ed. Sophie Watson and Katherine Gibson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 246.

Notes to Chapter Five

225

8. Ibid, 248. 9. Peter Brooker, New York Fictions: Modernism, Postmodernism, The New Modern (London: Longman, 1996), 136. 10. Ibid, 222. 11. Ibid, 130. 12. Ibid, 130. 13. Ibid, 4. 14. Ibid, 134–135. 15. The Condition of Postmodernity, 44. 16. Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (London: Jonathan Cape, 1962), 4. 17. The Condition of Postmodernity, 72. 18. Ibid, 46. 19. Ihab Hassan, The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1987), 40. 20. Ibid, 41. 21. Jean Baudrillard, America trans. Chris Turner (London: Verso, 1988), 18. 22. Ibid, 23. 23. Ibid, 28. 24. Ibid, 18. 25. The Condition of Postmodernity, 60–61. 26. Jack Solomon, “Our Decentred Culture: The Postmodern Worldview,” in The Postmodern Presence ed. Arthur Asa Berger (Walnut Creek: AltaMira, 1998), 36. 27. The New York Times 19 Sep. 1993: 33. 28. Auster, “Interview with Larry McCaffrey and Sinda Gregory,” in The Art of Hunger (London: Faber & Faber, 1998), 321. 29. Ibid, In the Country of Last Things (London: Faber & Faber, 1989), 22. 30. Tim Woods, ““Looking for Signs in the Air”: Urban Space and the Postmodern in In the Country of Last Things” in Beyond the Red Notebook ed. Dennis Barone (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 108. 31. In the Country of Last Things, 20. 32. Woods, 110. 33. In the Country of Last Things, 2–3. 34. Ibid, 89. 35. Ibid, 17. 36. Ibid, 5. 37. Ibid, 35. 38. Ibid, 36. 39. Ibid, 57. 40. Ibid, 57. 41. Ibid, 47. 42. Ibid, 68.

226

Notes to Chapter Five

43. Woods, 124. 44. Wesseling, 497. 45. In the Country of Last Things, 1–2. 46. Ibid, 19–20. 47. Ibid, 20. 48. Woods, 122. 49. In the Country of Last Things, 15. 50. Woods, 122. 51. Wesseling, 500. 52. In the Country of Last Things, 117. 53. Ibid, 162. 54. Ibid, 29. 55. Wesseling, 503. 56. In the Country of Last Things, 88. 57. The Art of Hunger, 321. 58. Auster, The Music of Chance (London: Faber & Faber, 1991), 79. 59. Ibid, 79. 60. Ibid, 80. 61. Ibid, 96. 62. Ibid, 113. 63. Ibid, 178. 64. Woods, “The Music of Chance: Aleatorical (Dis)harmonies Within the ‘City of the World’” in Beyond the Red Notebook, 151–152. 65. Ibid, 151. 66. The Music of Chance, 80. 67. Woods, 152. 68. Ibid, 152. 69. The Music of Chance, 175. 70. Woods, 160. 71. Auster, “Interview with Mark Irwin” in The Art of Hunger, 335. 72. Philip Kasinitz, In Search of New York (New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 1989), 99. 73. Auster, “Interview with Annette Insdorf ” in Smoke and Blue in the Face: Two Films (London: Faber & Faber, 1995), 14–15. 74. Ibid, 13. 75. Ibid, 9. 76. Ibid, 14. 77. Smoke and Blue in the Face, 27. 78. Ibid, 44. 79. Ibid, 30. 80. Ibid, 82. 81. Ibid, 75. 82. Ibid, 134.

Notes to Chapter Six 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100.

227

Ibid, 87. Ibid, 121. Ibid, 121. Ibid, 183. Ibid, 203–204. Ibid, 200. Ibid, 161. Ibid, 164. Ibid, 210. Don De Lillo, “In the Ruins of the Future” in The Guardian Dec. 22, 2001, Review, 2. Ibid, 1. Auster, Collected Prose (London: Faber & Faber, 2003), 506. Ibid, 505. Ibid, 506. Ed Vulliamy, “The city that never changed” in The Guardian, Aug 18, 2002. Review, 8. Collected Prose, 507 Ibid, 507. Smoke and Blue in the Face, 210–211.

NOTES TO CHAPTER SIX 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

Paul Auster, Leviathan (London: Faber & Faber, 1993), 2. Ibid, 102. Ibid, 8. Ibid, 142. Ibid, 36. Ibid, 226. Auster, The New York Trilogy: City of Glass, Ghosts, The Locked Room (London: Faber & Faber, 1988), 53. Leviathan, 4. Ibid, 4. Ibid, 4. Ibid, 3. Ibid, 2. Ibid, 245. Ibid, 243. Ibid, 242. Ibid, 9. Ibid, 222. Ibid, 160. Ibid, 224.

228

Notes to Chapter Six

20. Louis Adamic, Dynamite: The Story of Class Violence in America 1931 (New York and London: Chelsea House Publishers, 1958), 321. 21. Ibid, 104. 22. Ibid, 107. 23. Ibid, 106. 24. Ibid, 106. 25. Alston Chase, “Not just a degree but despair, damage and death too” in The Times Higher Aug 1, 2003: 19. 26. Ibid, 19. 27. Ibid, 19. 28. Theodore Kaczynski, “Industrial Society and its Future,” www.soci.niu.edu/ ~criticism.uni/uni.txt, 1. 29. Ibid, 3. 30. Ibid, 34. 31. Ibid, 32. 32. Leviathan, 217. 33. Ibid, 22. 34. Ibid, 22. 35. Arthur Saltzman,, “Leviathan: Post Hoc Harmonies” in Beyond the Red Notebook ed. Dennis Barone (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 164. 36. Ibid, 162. 37. Leviathan, 98. 38. Ibid, 97. 39. Ibid, 89. 40. Saltzman, 168. 41. Ibid, 99. 42. Ibid, 98. 43. Ibid, 100. 44. Ibid, 100. 45. Ibid, 146. 46. Ibid, 117. 47. Ibid, 107. 48. Ibid, 116. 49. Ibid, 116–117. 50. Ibid, 121–122. 51. Ibid, 121. 52. Ibid, 126. 53. Ibid, 160. 54. Ibid, 126. 55. Ibid, 2. 56. Ibid, 13. 57. Ibid, 125.

Notes to Chapter Six 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

229

Ibid, 136. Ibid, 131. Ibid, 142. Ibid, 153. Ibid, 155. Ibid, 224–225. Ibid, 170. Ibid, 198. Ibid, 165. Ibid, 60. Ibid, 61. Sophie Calle, The Rules of the Game (London: Violette Editions, 1999). i. Ibid, ii. Ibid, 4–5. Ibid, 2. Ibid, 2. Leviathan, 20. Ibid, 86. Ibid, 12. Ibid, 23. Ibid, 24. Ibid, 32. Ibid, 31. Ibid, 35. Ibid, 215–216. Ibid, 218. Ibid, 217. Ibid, 25. Ibid, 25. Ralph Waldo Emerson, Ralph Waldo Emerson ed. Frederic I. Carpenter (New York: American Book Company, 1934), 58. Leviathan, 26. Henry David Thoreau, Civil Disobedience and Reading (1849, 1866) (London: Penguin, 1995), 16–17. Ibid, 24. Leviathan, 26. Ibid, 37. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (London: Routledge, 1991), 114. Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus” in The Poems of Emma Lazarus (1883) (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1889), I: 202–203. Leviathan, 38–39. Ibid, 104.

230 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103.

Notes to Chapter Six Ibid, 225. Ibid, 228. Ibid, 234. Ibid, 217. Ibid, 218. Ibid, 217. Ibid, 222.

Bibliography

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Index

A Adamic, Louis, 184–185 Alcott, Bronson, 127–128 Althusser, Louis, 163 “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story” (Auster), 11, 28–29, 31, 131, 166, 169, 199 Auster, Anna, 92 Auster, Daniel, 71, 95, 117, 130, 178 Auster, Ellen, 137 Auster, Harry, 91–94, 100 Auster, Paul, 1, 69–70, 72, 103, 120–121, 145, 165, 173–176, 198–200, 210–211; and authorship, 18, 28, 71, 80–81, 119, 126, 179, 181; and contingency, 27, 35–36, 41– 49, 51, 53, 65–66, 74; and literary criticism, 23, 43, 128–129; and postmodernism, 2, 6–7, 19, 31–33, 99–101, 142–144, 185; autobiographical writings, 10–15, 22, 42, 67–68, 76–77, 117–118, 134, 137, 178. See also individual works listed by title; Döppelgangers; Fathers and sons; Politics; Skepticism Auster, Samuel, 16, 44, 69–70, 91, 93–98, 100, 117, 211 Auster, Sophie, 173, 178 Autobiography, 10–14, 22, 32, 67–68, 99–100

B

Baudrillard, Jean, 150–152, 175–176 Bauman, Zgymunt, 39–40, 87 Bawer, Bruce, 2 Beckett, Samuel, 9, 16–18, 125 Behn, Aphra, 20 Berkman, Alexander, 180, 184–185 Berman, Marshall, 108 Beuys, Joseph, 7 Blakelock, Ralph Albert, 68–69 Blue in the Face (Auster), 147, 166, 170–171 Book of Illusions, The (Auster), 86, 100–101, 144 Borges, Jorge Luis, 9 Brooker, Peter, 111–112, 148–149, 174–175 Brown, Wesley, 149 Bush, George W., 188 Butler, Christopher, 9

C Calinescu, Matei, 2–3, 7–10, 23 Calle, Sophie, 198–199 Caraher, Brian G., 48 Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 68, 143 Channing, Ellery, 207 Chase, Alston, 186 Childs, Peter, 20–21 City of Glass (Auster), 1, 6, 22–23, 25, 31, 43, 45–46, 51, 83, 103–107, 109–117, 121, 126, 130, 137, 140–142, 146, 155, 170, 180. See also New York Trilogy Columbus, Christopher, 155

Barone, Dennis, 27, 31

235

236 Contingency, 13, 32, 35–41, 54, 62, 64–66, 86, 113, 166

D Dean, Dizzy, 25 De Lillo, Don, 172–173 Death, 84, 96–98, 125, 158–159 Döppelgangers, 1, 50–51, 70–71, 84, 88, 94–95, 103, 112–113, 116, 121–124, 194–195, 197

Index I Indiana, Gary, 2, 87 In the Country of Last Things (Auster), 6–7, 10, 19, 22, 26, 32, 35, 86, 114, 145, 153–161, 175 Invention of Solitude, The (Auster), 6–7, 10, 15, 19, 22, 32, 42, 44, 67, 69– 72, 92–97, 100, 117, 119, 125, 137, 153, 211 Isabella I, Queen of Castile, 155

E

J

Eakin, Paul John, 14–15, 18 Edison, Thomas Alva, 69–70 Einstein, Albert, 37–38 Elegant, Linda, 53 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 204–205

Jacobs, Jane, 149–150 Jameson, Fredric, 3–4, 8, 15 Johnson, Lyndon B., 74 Joyce, James, 22

F

Kaczynski, Theodore, 185–188 Kafka, Franz, 20, 22 Kasinitz, Philip, 165–166 Keitel, Harvey, 29–30 Kenosha Evening News, 93 Kosinski, Jerzy, 13–14 Kounellis, Jannis, 7

K Fathers and sons, 15, 32, 67, 90–98, 117, 120 Ferdinand II, King of Aragon, 155 Ford, Mark, 127 Fowles, John, 23 Frick, Henry C., 185

G Gorgias of Lentini, 18 Ghosts (Auster), 6, 18, 31, 51, 104, 117–129, 131, 137, 141–142. See also New York Trilogy Gitlin, Todd, 5–7 Grimm, Jacob, 41 Grimm, Wilhelm, 41

H Hamsun, Knut, 83–85 Hand to Mouth (Auster), 10–14, 26, 74, 76, 137, 201 Harvey, David, 147–148, 150, 152 Hassan, Ihab, 2, 4–5, 18, 150 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 127 Heller, Agnes, 86 Hurt, William, 30 Hussein, Saddam, 188 Hustvedt, Siri, 22, 130, 178 Hutcheon, Linda, 42–43, 70, 206 Huyssen, Andreas, 2, 7

L Lacan, Jacques, 15 Laplace, Pierre-Simon, Marquis de, 37 Lazarus, Emma, 206–207 Lennon, John, 14 Leviathan (Auster), 6, 21–22, 28, 32, 46, 51, 82, 109, 131–132, 139, 162, 177–186, 188–198, 200–211 Lewis, Barry, 41 Locked Room, The (Auster), 6, 10, 31, 33, 51, 103–104, 116, 123, 131–144. See also New York Trilogy Lyotard, Jean-Francois, 3–4, 38–39, 41

M Marcuse, Peter, 148, 153 Mays, Willie, 52 McCarthy, Mary, 15 McPheron, William, 2 Melville, Herman, 127–128 Memory, 15–20, 80, 119, 143

Index

237

Merz, Mario, 7 Modernism, 3–5, 7–8, 19, 21–23, 84 Monod, Jacques, 36–38, 41 “Moonlight in the Brooklyn Museum” (Auster), 69 Moon Palace (Auster), 6, 21–22, 28, 32, 35, 49, 67–70, 72–91, 99–100, 109, 146 Mr. Vertigo (Auster), 10, 21, 23–27 Music of Chance, The (Auster), 6–7, 10, 12–13, 21–22, 32, 41, 54–65, 100, 118, 161–165, 201

Red Notebook, The (Auster), 11, 14–15, 26, 32, 41–43, 47–52, 113, 118, 138, 181, 201 Reed, Lou, 170, 176 Roebling, John, 119 Roebling, Washington, 119 Rorty, Richard, 39–40 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 63–65 Rubin, Derek, 17 Rushdie, Salman, 181 Russell, Charles, 69

N

Saltzman, Arthur, 189–190, 211 Sartre, Jean Paul, 72 Selected Poems (Auster): “Ireland,” 47–48; “S.A. 1911–1979,” 96–97, 117, 125 Setterberg, Fred, 14 Sim, Stuart, 3, 43 Skepticism, 4, 10, 22, 31–32, 53, 65, 67, 143, 175 Smoke (Auster), 29–31, 51, 131, 147, 166– 167, 199 Solitude, 71–72, 95, 98, 119, 191 Solomon, Jack, 152–153 Spencer, Lloyd, 3

S Nabokov, Vladimir, 9 New York City, 6, 13, 18, 103–104, 108, 114–115, 146–149, 151–153, 165–166, 171–173, 175–176, 193; and September 11, 2001 attack on, 101, 147, 172–174, 188 New York Times, The, 28, 153, 166, 182 New York Trilogy, The (Auster), 2, 6, 10, 22, 31, 45, 103–104, 112, 116–118, 131, 141–144, 146, 189, 211. See also City of Glass; Ghosts; Locked Room Nietzsche, Friedrich, 40

T O Oracle Nights (Auster), 33, 144 Out of the Past (Jacques Tourneur), 121– 122

P Pascal, Blaise, 15, 17 Petit, Philippe, 27, 173 Poe, Edgar Allan, 1, 50, 103 Politics, 32, 72–73, 75–77, 108–109, 114–116 Ponge, Francis, 16 Postmodernism, 1–11, 19, 22, 27, 32–33, 38, 67, 70, 144, 152 Prigogine, Ilya, 37

Tesla, Nikola, 68–69 Thom, Rene, 37 Thoreau, Henry David, 18, 73, 126–128, 187, 204–207 Thousand and One Tales of Arabian Nights, The, 41 Timbuktu (Auster), 13, 21–22, 28, 51, 98–99 Tolstoy, Leo, 130 Tourneur, Jacques, 121 Toynbee, Arnold, 2, 8 True Tales of American Life (Auster), 52–54, 99

U “Underground” (Auster), 113

V R Reagan, Ronald, 108

Vietnam War, 5, 74–75, 184, 196, 202 Vulliamy, Ed, 174

238 W Waits, Tom, 30 Wang, Harvey, 171 Weisenburger, Steven, 69, 76 Wesseling, Elisabeth, 145–146, 156–157 Whitman, Walt, 127–128 Why Write? (Auster), 14, 32, 41, 51–52, 118, 138

Index Winnie, Robert, 99 Woods, Tim, 54, 60–61, 65, 154, 156, 163–164 Woolf, Virginia, 20 Wyatt, David, 74

Z Zavarzadah, Mas’ud, 42