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I recently started reading Auster’s work. It began with The Brooklyn Follies that my Oregonian friend lent me. I flipped through the books she lent me and picked one to read with the best opening. Auster’s first line got me hooked and I couldn’t put it down. My next Auster novel, The New York Trilogy was found at a used bookstore. Little did I know that it was really a collection of 3 short novels, experimental detective fiction pieces, that launched Auster’s budding career as an author.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not so, I also found out that he was appearing at the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco. On a whim, I purchased tickets for my husband and myself. Little did I know that the event tonight was not just a conversation with Paul Auster, but was really a screening of his new movie The Inner Life of Martin Frost followed by a conversation with the author/screenwriter/director himself. The night was thoroughly enjoyable. The movie was beautiful. It reminded me a bit of Lost in Translation. (My husband didn’t see that movie, so please comment if you have seen both movies.) The dialogue or narrative, which is essential to Auster’s written work, fades into the background of this visually stunning film. Afterwards, I caught myself smiling while listening to Auster speak. He comes across…hmmm…well, as my husband noted, not pretentious. When speaking about his writing process, Auster reflected back on some lines of the film saying that he has never witnessed the birth of an idea - one moment you have a blank and the next moment it is there.

My wanderings into Auster’s work have peaked my interest to read more of his novels - and to go back and re-read the previous ones more closely, with a pen in hand. I foresee another trip the used bookstore soon. I recommend The Inner Life of Martin Frost to viewers looking for a film that you watch in silence, with hot mugs of tea or glasses of dark red wine. It is a movie to be savored, not rushed.

This is for my Minnesota friend - an excellent storyteller and who also happens to be reading Auster’s The New York Trilogy.

Stories happen only to those who are able to tell them, someone once said. In the same way, perhaps, experiences present themselves only to those who are able to have them. But this is a difficult point, and I can’t be sure of any of it.

These few lines made me stop reading and think. I don’t have something profound, concise and clever to write as a response to it yet, but still wanted to share it nonetheless. Enjoy.