Remembering Paul Auster

The Art of Fiction No. 178 and "In the Country of Last Things"

The Paris Review Redux: free interviews, stories, poems, and art from the archives of The Paris Review. View this email in your browser Paul Auster at the 2010 Brooklyn Book Festival. Photograph by David Shankbone, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  "A novel is the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy," Paul Auster said to Michael Wood in his Art of Fiction interview, which appears in issue no. 167 of the Review. "The reader and the writer make the book together. No other art can do that. No other art can capture the essential inwardness of human life." The Review mourns the loss of Auster, who died last week at the age of seventy-seven. In celebration of his life and work, we're unlocking his Art of Fiction interview from our archive, along with his story "In the Country of Last Things," published in issue no. 96.  INTERVIEW The Art of Fiction No. 178  Paul Auster   INTERVIEWER Has writing fiction become easier for you over the years? AUSTER No, I don't think so. Each book is a new book. I've never written it before and I have to teach myself how to write it as I go along. The fact that I've written books in the past seems to play no part in it. I always feel like a beginner and I'm continually running into the same difficulties, the same blocks, the same despairs. You make so many mistakes as a writer, cross out so many bad sentences and ideas, discard so many worthless pages, that finally what you learn is how stupid you are. It's a humbling occupation.   From issue no. 167 (Fall 2003)   PROSE In the Country of Last Things Paul Auster Yes, there are many things I'm ashamed of. At times my life seems nothing but a series of regrets, of wrong turnings, of irreversible mistakes. That is the problem when you begin to look back. You see yourself as you were, and you are appalled. But it's too late for apologies now, I realize that. It's too late for anything but getting on with it. These are the words, then. Sooner or later, I will try to say everything, and it makes no difference what comes when, whether the first thing is the second thing or the second thing the last. It all swirls around in my head at once, and merely to hold on to a thing long enough to say it is a victory. If this confuses you, I'm sorry. But I don't have much choice. I have to take it strictly as I can get it. From issue no. 96 (Summer 1985)   To read more from issue no. 167, including fiction by Yiyun Li and Miranda July, why not subscribe? You'll receive four print issues a year plus unlimited digital access to our seventy-year archive. Copyright © 2024 The Paris Review. All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: The Paris Review 544 West 27th Street 3rd Floor New York, New York 10001 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe, if you must.