Untimely #20 - Shittalker

First, I must apologise that I have not written on my blog since December 15^th, the day of my wife’s death. Since then I have become skilled at making a meal of pasta for one. A single clove of garlic, which I slice thinly, frying it softly in a drop of olive oil. Sometimes I add an anchovy, sometimes two on good days. They sell the half tins of pulped tomatoes in the store now, which is enough. I like linguine; I like how thick but still slender it can be. I pinch dried strands between my thumb and first two fingers. She was from a very traditional family: they did not say it, but they were disappointed in her marriage to a writer, an academic. The few times I met them they smiled, they welcomed me, but they used their greetings to place and distance me.

I still use our large pan, bringing a large quantity of water to a rolling boil, before plunging the linguine in to soften and snake in the roil. She taught me, as her mother had taught her, to cook pasta to the bite, to reserve a little of the starchy water, to add a slug of oil, to lubricate the strands and coat in the sauce.

I am sitting now at the window twisting and forking the strands into my mouth as I read through a stack of freshman essays in response to this question:

“You don’t even know who he is.”

In the light of this comment, discuss the role of self-knowledge in the work of Paul Auster.

Most of the essays are workmanlike, parroting back the less interesting threads of analysis from my lectures, lacking the flair, imagination or originality that the subject demands. A few are just plain nonsense or are full of the misinformed literary namedropping so typical of freshman students. One essay, however, develops an interesting discussion on the relationship between the urban and the urbane in Auster, employing Joyce and Chandler as predictable but useful counterpoints. In the hands of this student Auster’s writing becomes an extended dialogue between the city and the self. Her arguments are taut, fierce, almost erotic, yet shy and self effacing in the way that Siri could be when challenged.

            That is how she was on her last day, when we fought. She was angry that I had become so consumed in my latest book. As usual, I had spent night after night walking the city, returning at dawn to write through the day. I had assumed that she had understood that this was a temporary state, a process I often undertook at the start of a project, which she was to mirror in a typical state of wry forbearance. Returning that morning I found her sitting in the chair in which I now write. We argued, sniped; I was tired from walking, the frustrated urge to write channelled into bitter, sarcastic impatience which was further fuel to her anger. I tried to end the argument, as I always did, turning toward my study. It was at this point that we shattered.

            “You’re so lame. You probably think Paul Auster’s a great writer.” She said.

            “Oh yeah? You don’t even know who he is.” I returned and our words crystallized and fell.