James Lloyd on Paul Auster (1947-2024)

A friend's heartfelt tribute to the great American writer who died this week aged 77.

My friend James Lloyd, Carmarthen lad who now resides in Cuba, by way of years living the cultured life in Turkey and thereabouts, as written a fabulous tribute to the great American novelist Paul Auster, who died this week aged 77. Assuming many of the BRG readers are not following James’ instagram, I asked if I could recreate his short essay here in my newsletter. He kindly agreed.

Here it is.

It was Chris Wigginton at Trinity in Carmarthen who turned me on to Paul Auster. It was around 2002 and the module was titled something like ‘The Diversity of Narrative Form’ or ‘Postmodern Narratives’. Our assignment was to craft a treatment—a proposal reimagining a classic text into a contemporary story. My idea was to turn Hamlet into a detective narrative. Though the specifics are hazy, it was set in Hamelin, Germany, with a storyline revolving around the investigation of a father’s murder.

On reading it, Chris recommended I look up a novel called The New York Trilogy. I admired Chris, who became something of a mentor for a while, and it was on that same day that I either went to Ottakar’s in Carmarthen or caught the train to Swansea to pick up a copy from Waterstones. What I vividly remember is sitting down and reading the novel in a kind of fever.

The Invention of Solitude, The Music of Chance, Moon Palace, and The Book of Illusions soon followed. Reading Auster became a module within that module, so to speak. And looking back, this seemed fitting, given the intricate, nested worlds, reminiscent of Chinese boxes, in which his stories unfold.

For me, Auster’s novels, especially those mentioned, resemble adult or modern fairytales, furnished with an urban, noirish interior. There’s much of Poe and Hawthorne’s influence as well, but at the same time I’d argue that he kind of created a genre all his own.

We look for patterns in the lives of writers, actors, and filmmakers we admire. I’d never really gotten along with my own father, and Auster, like other writers, became surrogate paternal figures. This was strengthened by my learning of his ‘borderline idolatry’ of Beckett’s work, which kind of mirrored my own, and then his friendship with Wim Wenders, a filmmaker I continue to admire to this day. It was things like these that only served to further my interest in the life that had led him to produce that work.

Through Auster, I delved into the works of Montaigne, Pascal, Georges Oppen, Joan Mitchell, Wim Wenders, Sophie Calle, Knut Hamsun, and notably, his wife Siri Husvedt, especially her brilliant novel, What I Loved. It was because of Auster that I also, quite comically, began smoking Dutch cigarillos.

I got to meet him. I’ve posted about this before. At the time, I was completing a masters in Comparative Literature and living in London. A friend, Jennifer Beckett (a distant cousin of Samuel Beckett), emailed to tell me of the inaugural Mountains to the Sea Book Festival in Dún Laoghaire, during which the keynote event would feature Auster delivering what has been titled the ‘Beckett Address’. I remember Jen signed off with something like, 'it’s as though it was purposely put together just for you.’

At the lectern, Auster delivered his Beckett address, discussing the colossal impact Beckett had on him as a writer. He read an excerpt from 'Watt' and then shared an anecdote about meeting Beckett in a Parisian cafe (Beckett smoked Auster’s cigarettes as they discussed his novel ‘Mercier and Camier’). Auster was surprised to find himself having to convince a doubting Beckett that he really had liked the novel, and concluded by reflecting on how, by the end of that meeting, Beckett would become less of a monument he carried around on his back and more of a man.

At the end of his address, Auster crouched beside the lectern, visibly distressed by nerves or anxiety. Husvedt, sensing his unease, rose from her seat to comfort him, coddling him and planting a kiss on his forehead. I felt a mixture of empathy and surprise or even shock, that someone of such renown could endure the same insecurities we all experience.

As I prepared to leave the Royal Marine Hotel to catch the DART back into Dublin, a woman stopped me for a light on the way out. We struck up a conversation about Auster, and I expressed my admiration for him. Then, just as I was about to leave, she casually asked, 'Would you like to meet him?'

In the upstairs bar, we drank a pint of Guinness and talked about anything other than his novels. Instead, we had a laugh discussing his film Blue in the Face, particularly Lou Reed’s improvised monologue. Naturally, I did eventually express my admiration for his work but, looking back now, what was likely prominent in my mind was an urge to be photographed with him, some visual record of having met one of my heroes. Today, I’m glad I couldn’t. 

Obviously, it’s not the same kind of connection, but as I left, I recalled Auster’s anecdote about Beckett, and how their meeting had humanised him, making him less of a monument and more of a man. Reflecting back, that's probably how I felt about Auster after our encounter. And what a wonderful man he was.

Good night, Paul. And thank you.

I feel it’s very important to mark the passing of the writers and artists who mean the most to us, and I doubt I’ll read a better one for Auster than James’s.

Gary Raymond is a novelist, author, playwright, critic, and broadcaster. In 2012, he co-founded Wales Arts Review, was its editor for ten years. His latest book, Abandon All Hope: A Personal Journey Through the History of Welsh Literature is available for pre-order and is out in May 2024 with Calon Books.