By Catherine Wagley
By Channing Sargent
By L.A. Weekly critics
By Amanda Lewis
By Catherine Wagley
By Carol Cheh
By Keegan Hamilton
By Bill Raden
The mind of Paul Auster goes blank at night. He lies down to sleep in his Brooklyn home after a long day with pen and legal pad, or bent over the same manual Olympia typewriter he’s used since the 1960s, tangling with characters and ideas that can inhabit his imagination for years at a time before finding a place within one of his novels. Six, seven days a week he does this, obsessing and writing and rewriting, but then it goes quiet, and he leaves it all behind, observing only silence and serenity in the dark.
“Writing a novel is a very slow process,” says Auster, 61, speaking from the Park Slope office he keeps just around the corner from his brownstone. “You can only work so many hours per day. Then your brain starts to sizzle and short-circuit. I believe in rest, and not thinking about it. The powers of the unconscious seem to work very well with novels.”
Auster’s new novel, Man in the Dark, is told through the character of August Brill, a retired literary critic with a shattered leg, who spends his days in a wheelchair and his nights alone, creating epic narratives to keep the horrors and regrets of his recent past far away. The bad thoughts are personal and global, with echoes from the distant catastrophe in Iraq, and as immediate as his grieving daughter and granddaughter.
Auster has come to be known as “the chance man,” an author preoccupied with the wild coincidences of life and accidental connections between people and events. Such connections were central to the celebrated New York Trilogy, his metaphysical reworking of the detective genre, and have factored into his nonfiction essays and autobiographical vignettes. Yet these ideas have never truly represented the full scope of his work. “It’s sometimes maddening,” admits Auster of this lingering reputation. Much more is at stake in Man in the Dark, a novel that is obliquely topical but is also among his most emotionally charged.
For the wounded Brill, inventing stories is not a vocation or even a hobby, but a necessity. His wife has died, his daughter’s husband gone to another woman, and his granddaughter’s lover murdered. Auster’s novel unfolds during one of his nights in the dark, as he imagines a contemporary America in which the attacks of September 11 never happened. Instead, “one nightmare replaces another,” and we have an unthinkable second American Civil War, this one ignited by the bungled, stolen election of 2000. It is perhaps the novel’s greatest leap of fantasy to suggest this country might have risen up after the U.S. Supreme Court delivered the presidency to George W. Bush, which is literally the opposite of how Americans did respond. There were no mass protests or general strikes. New York and California did not secede from the union (as they do in Brill’s fantasy). In the real world where Auster and the rest of us reside, the nation yawned and kept score on Hardball.
‘I know,” says Auster, genuine regret in his voice. He laughs. “I was apoplectic for at least a year afterwards. And I still haven’t recovered, so perhaps this imaginary Civil War is some kind of wish fulfillment on my part.”
The greater the fantasy, the better the distraction. So the bedridden fabulist Brill imagines a young magician taken from New York and drafted to perform an assassination to end “this other war, an imaginary war on home ground, America cracking apart, the noble experiment finally dead.” And he decides that this magician’s mission is to kill Brill himself, to silence the old man in the wheelchair who is creating this awful story of war, to end all of this pain.
Man in the Dark is not a political novel in the traditional sense, but the consequences of our ongoing national nightmare are everywhere. The first mention of Iraq appears on page eight, September 11 on page 31, Bush on page 51, the election of 2000 on page 62, and so on. But the book draws its greatest rage and horror from the personal tragedy suffered by Auster’s good friend, the Israeli author David Grossman, whose son was killed during the 2006 war with Lebanon — and just days before a ceasefire. The novel is dedicated to Grossman and his family, and “in memory of Uri,” who died the very week his father and Amos Oz urged Prime Minister Ehud Olmert to end the conflict.
“He was a 20-year-old boy whom I knew,” Auster says gravely. “It’s one of the most terrible things that has ever happened to any of my friends. I love David very much. I think he is an extraordinary writer, an extraordinary man and someone who has been battling for peace in Israel all his life, and for this to happen to him of all people seems the cruelest turn imaginable. I’ve been thinking about this ever since it happened. This really propelled me into the book.”