– Paul Auster is immortal
Published today at 8:24 a.m.
I climbed into a rickety chair after hearing of Auster’s death. The writer died “in a room he loved, the library […] with us, surrounded by his family, on April 30, 2024 at 6:58 p.m.,” wrote Siri Hustvedt, his wife. She was angry, moreover, there, in Brooklyn, because she had had this ad in the “New York Times” “stolen” by a family friend. I’m not sure it was so important, that it happened like this, a bit of a surprise, not as planned. The chance, the imponderable, the strong love of Siri Hustvedt translated in this last storm, all of this remains so wonderfully pure Auster.
I climbed into this rickety chair, after learning of Auster’s death, in front of my own library, remembering, however, that I had no intention of dying there. Not right away anyway, although it is undoubtedly the most interesting place in the house, as in all houses. I stood on tiptoe, trying not to slip or roll off the unstable chair, and cursed myself. I had trouble spotting them, the Austers. The books are sometimes arranged on the white shelves according to an indefinite code, a sort of bizarre affinity between them, as if they lived their own life, far from alphabetical reason or the dreary and “by author” bookseller. I finally found a few, “Moon Palace”, “The Book of Illusions”, “The Music of Chance” (such a wonderful title, a whole philosophy right from the cover). But I didn’t get my hands on “Mr Vertigo”, the first Auster novel that I read, by pure chance of course, almost thirty years ago.
In my chair, I remembered this young hero learning to float above the world. This magical story appealed to me so much, from the irresistible opening: “I was twelve years old the first time I walked on water.” There was even a small, simple drawing that showed how it rose, in stages. I almost fell just thinking about it, with this desire to try right now: to fly slowly around the room, to walk in the air. I went back down, however, cautiously, rather annoyed at not having retrieved the volume, but convinced by what appeared luminously to me: you recognize a great writer by the irrepressible desire to reread him, not to wait for his new books. So he is immortal. Auster is immortal.
Deprived of “Mr Vertigo”, I looked for extracts on the web. And I came across this one, where Master Yehudi explains to young Walt the beauty of a book that he rereads endlessly: “It is inexhaustible. You drink the wine, you put the glass on the table and, marvelously, when you take it back in your hand you realize that it is still full.” Auster’s novels tell exactly this miracle.
Christophe Passerborn in Fribourg, has worked at Le Matin Dimanche since 2014, after having worked in particular at Le Nouveau Quotidien and L’Illustré. More informations
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