Paul Auster’s “Why Write?”

From The New Yorker's archive: a meditative essay about moments in Auster's life that shaped him as a person and as a writer.  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌   View in browser | Update your preferences     Life and Letters Why Write? It was a dark and stormy afternoon. By Paul Auster The novelist and poet Paul Auster is a skillful purveyor of literary exploration. Since working briefly in his youth in the merchant marine, Auster has brought his exacting eye to more than thirty-five books and screenplays, including "The New York Trilogy" and "4321," which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, in 2017. One of my favorite pieces by Auster is "Why Write?," a meditative essay, published in 1995, about experiences that shaped him both in his personal life and as a writer. The essay, later expanded into a book, commences as a trickle and eventually gathers into a flood of memories in prose. "No longer a child, not yet an adult, you bounce back and forth between who you were and who you are about to become," he writes, of adolescence. "In my own case, I was still young enough to think that I had a legitimate shot at playing in the major leagues, but old enough to be questioning the existence of God." In an exchange with the South African novelist J. M. Coetzee, in 2009, Auster self-deprecatingly observed that he often responds to Coetzee's letters with anecdotes—or, as he describes them, "case studies" about himself. "Why Write?" employs a similar technique, offering detailed autobiographical snapshots as a way of tracing the through line of his life. Both the pivotal and the ostensibly trivial cascade and tumble over each other as his essay progresses: a moment when his daughter is suddenly in jeopardy; a crucial incident at summer camp when he was a teen-ager. Building on a seemingly disconnected series of scenes, Auster finds humor and poignancy in unexpected places. (A chance encounter with his childhood idol, Willie Mays, leads to a revelation about writing as craft.) Reading Auster is akin to the experience of riding a wave: you plunge into a bracing narrative, never quite sure where you'll end up—only certain that, wherever the ride leads, you'll find yourself in intriguing, uncharted territory.   —Erin Overbey, archive editor More from the Archive     Page-Turner The Better Player From 2013: A correspondence. By Paul Auster and J. M. Coetzee     Profiles The Dead Are Real From 2012: Hilary Mantel talks about the rare wonder of having the manuscript of "Wolf Hall" "unscroll before me." By Larissa MacFarquhar You're receiving this e-mail because you signed up for the New Yorker Classics newsletter. Was this e-mail forwarded to you? Sign up.   Unsubscribe | Manage your e-mail preferences | Send newsletter feedback | View our privacy policy    Copyright © Condé Nast 2021. One World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. All rights reserved.