ALSO BY PAUL AUSTER
The Invention of Solitude
The New York Trilogy
In the Country of Last Things
Moon Palace
The Music of Chance
Leviathan
Mr. Vertigo
Smoke & Blue in the Face
Hand to Mouth
Lulu on the Bridge
Timbuktu
The Book of Illusions
Collected Poems
The Red Notebook
Oracle Night
Collected Prose
The Brooklyn Follies
Travels in the Scriptorium
The Inner Life of Martin Frost
Man in the Dark
Invisible
Sunset Park
Winter Journal
ALSO BY J. M. COETZEE
Dusklands
In the Heart of the Country
Waiting for the Barbarians
Life & Times of Michael K
Foe
White Writing
Age of Iron
Doubling the Point: Essays and Interviews
The Master of Petersburg
Giving Offense
Boyhood: Scenes from Provincial Life
The Lives of Animals
Disgrace
Stranger Shores: Essays 1986–1999
Youth
Elizabeth Costello
Slow Man
Inner Workings
Diary of a Bad Year
Summertime
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com
First published in 2013 by Viking Penguin,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Paul Auster, 2013.
Copyright © J. M. Coetzee, 2013.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Auster, Paul, 1947–
Here and now : letters (2008-2011) / Paul Auster and J. M. Coetzee.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-60627-8
1. Auster, Paul, 1947—Correspondence. 2. Authors, American—20th century—Correspondence. 3. Coetzee, J. M., 1940—Correspondence. 4. Authors, South African—20th century—Correspondence. I. Coetzee, J. M., 1940– II. Title.
PS3551.U77Z48 2013
816'.54—dc23
2012039755
Contents
Also by Paul Auster
Also by J. M. Coetzee
Title Page
Copyright
July 14–15, 2008
Brooklyn, July 29, 2008
September 12, 2008
Brooklyn, September 22, 2008
October 28, 2008
December 6, 2008
December 9, 2008
December 14, 2008
December 30, 2008
December 30, 2008
January 1, 2009
January 5, 2009
Hôtel d’Aubusson, Paris, January 10, 2009
January 26, 2009
Brooklyn, February 2, 2009
March 15, 2009
Brooklyn, March 16, 2009
April 6, 2009
April 8, 2009
April 24, 2009
April 25, 2009
May 11, 2009
May 11, 2009
May 27, 2009
July 6, 2009
August 24, 2009
August 29, 2009
September 13, 2009
September 26, 2009
Brooklyn, September 29, 2009
October 1, 2009
October 9, 2009
October 10, 2009
October 14, 2009
October 23, 2009
November 2, 2009
November 13, 2009
November 22, 2009
December 15, 2009
December 18, 2009
January 7, 2010
January 12, 2010
February 19, 2010
February 23, 2010
March 29, 2010
April 7, 2010
April 17, 2010
April 20, 2010
May 11, 2010
July 4, 2010
July 5, 2010
July 19, 2010
July 21, 2010
July 29, 2010
July 29, 2010
August 18, 2010
Nantucket, August 21, 2010
September 4, 2010
September 6, 2010
October 21, 2010
October 22, 2010
November 11, 2010
November 12, 2010
November 29, 2010
December 3, 2010
January 19, 2011
January 28, 2011
March 3, 2011
March 7, 2011
March 8, 2011
March 14, 2011
March 28, 2011
April 7, 2011
April 22, 2011
May 24, 2011
May 5, 2011
May 31, 2011
June 14, 2011
August 29, 2011
Contents
Also by Paul Auster
Also by J. M. Coetzee
Title Page
Copyright
July 14–15, 2008
Brooklyn, July 29, 2008
September 12, 2008
Brooklyn, September 22, 2008
October 28, 2008
December 6, 2008
December 9, 2008
December 14, 2008
December 30, 2008
December 30, 2008
January 1, 2009
January 5, 2009
Hôtel d’Aubusson, Paris, January 10, 2009
January 26, 2009
Brooklyn, February 2, 2009
March 15, 2009
Brooklyn, March 16, 2009
April 6, 2009
April 8, 2009
April 24, 2009
April 25, 2009
May 11, 2009
May 11, 2009
May 27, 2009
July 6, 2009
August 24, 2009
August 29, 2009
September 13, 2009
September 26, 2009
Brooklyn, September 29, 2009
October 1, 2009
October 9, 2009
October 10, 2009
October 14, 2009
October 23, 2009
November 2, 2009
November 13, 2009
November 22, 2009
December 15, 2009
December 18, 2009
January 7, 2010
January 12, 2010
February 19, 2010
February 23, 2010
March 29, 2010
April 7, 2010
April 17, 2010
April 20, 2010
May 11, 2010
July 4, 2010
July 5, 2010
&nbs
p; July 19, 2010
July 21, 2010
July 29, 2010
July 29, 2010
August 18, 2010
Nantucket, August 21, 2010
September 4, 2010
September 6, 2010
October 21, 2010
October 22, 2010
November 11, 2010
November 12, 2010
November 29, 2010
December 3, 2010
January 19, 2011
January 28, 2011
March 3, 2011
March 7, 2011
March 8, 2011
March 14, 2011
March 28, 2011
April 7, 2011
April 22, 2011
May 24, 2011
May 5, 2011
May 31, 2011
June 14, 2011
August 29, 2011
HERE AND NOW
July 14–15, 2008
Dear Paul,
I have been thinking about friendships, how they arise, why they last—some of them—so long, longer than the passional attachments of which they are sometimes (wrongly) considered to be pale imitations. I was about to write a letter to you about all of this, starting with the observation that, considering how important friendships are in social life, and how much they mean to us, particularly during childhood, it is surprising how little has been written on the subject.
But then I asked myself whether this was really true. So before I sat down to write I went off to the library to do a quick check. And, lo and behold, I could not have been more wrong. The library catalog listed whole books on the subject, scores of books, many of them quite recent. But when I took a step further and actually had a look at these books, I recovered my self-respect somewhat. I had been right, or half-right, after all: what the books had to say about friendship was of little interest, most of it. Friendship, it would seem, remains a bit of a riddle: we know it is important, but as to why people become friends and remain friends we can only guess.
(What do I mean when I say that what is written is of little interest? Compare friendship with love. There are hundreds of interesting things to say about love. For instance: Men fall in love with women who remind them of their mothers, or rather, who both remind them and don’t remind them of their mothers, who are and are not their mothers at the same time. True? Maybe, maybe not. Interesting? Definitely. Now turn to friendship. Whom do men choose as friends? Other men of roughly the same age, with similar interests, say the books. True? Maybe. Interesting? Definitely not.)
Let me list the few observations on friendship, culled from my visits to the library, that I found of actual interest.
Item. One cannot be friends with an inanimate object, says Aristotle (Ethics, chapter 8). Of course not! Who ever said one could? But interesting nevertheless: all of a sudden one sees where modern linguistic philosophy got its inspiration. Two thousand four hundred years ago Aristotle was demonstrating that what looked like philosophical postulates could be no more than rules of grammar. In the sentence “I am friends with X,” he says, X has to be an animate noun.
Item. One can have friends without wanting to see them, says Charles Lamb. True; and interesting too—another way in which amical feelings are unlike erotic attachments.
Item. Friends, or at least male friends in the West, don’t talk about how they feel toward each other. Compare the garrulity of lovers. Thus far, not very interesting. Yet when the friend dies, what outpourings of grief: “Alas, too late!” (Montaigne on La Boétie, Milton on Edward King). (Question: Is love garrulous because desire is by nature ambivalent—Shakespeare, Sonnets—while friendship is taciturn because it is straightforward, without ambivalence?)
Finally, a remark by Christopher Tietjens in Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End: that one goes to bed with a woman in order to be able to talk to her. Implication: that turning a woman into a mistress is only a first step; the second step, turning her into a friend, is the one that matters; but being friends with a woman you haven’t slept with is in practice impossible because there is too much unspoken in the air.
If it is indeed so hard to say anything of interest about friendship, then a further insight becomes possible: that, unlike love or politics, which are never what they seem to be, friendship is what it seems to be. Friendship is transparent.
The most interesting reflections on friendship come from the ancient world. Why so? Because in ancient times people did not regard the philosophical stance as an inherently skeptical one, therefore did not take it as given that friendship must be other than it seems to be, or conversely conclude that if friendship is what it seems to be, then it cannot be a fit subject for philosophy.
All good wishes,
John
Brooklyn
July 29, 2008
Dear John,
This is a question I have given much thought to over the years. I can’t say I have developed any coherent position about friendship, but in response to your letter (which unleashed a whirlwind of thoughts and memories in me), perhaps this is the moment to try.
To begin with, I will confine myself to male friendship, friendship between men, friendship between boys.
1) Yes, there are friendships that are transparent and unambivalent (to use your terms), but in my experience not many of them. This might have something to do with another one of the terms you use: taciturn. You are correct to say that male friends (at least in the West) tend not to “talk about how they feel toward each other.” I would take this one step further and add: men tend not to talk about how they feel, period. And if you don’t know how your friend feels, or what he feels, or why he feels, can you honestly say that you know your friend? And yet friendships endure, often for many decades, in this ambiguous zone of not-knowing.
At least three of my novels deal directly with male friendship, are in a sense stories about male friendship—The Locked Room, Leviathan, and Oracle Night—and in each case, this no-man’s land of not-knowing that stands between friends becomes the stage on which the dramas are played out.
An example from life. For the past twenty-five years, one of my closest friends—perhaps the closest male friend of my adulthood—is one of the least garrulous people I have ever known. He is older than I am (by eleven years), but there is much we have in common: both writers, both idiotically obsessed with sports, both with long marriages to remarkable women, and, most important and most difficult to define, a certain unarticulated but shared feeling about how one is supposed to live—an ethics of manhood. And yet, much as I care for this person, willing as I would be to rip the shirt off my back for him in time of trouble, our conversations are almost without exception bland and insipid, utterly banal. We communicate by emitting short grunts, reverting to a kind of shorthand language that would be incomprehensible to a stranger. As for our work (the driving force of both our lives), we rarely even mention it.
To demonstrate how closely this man plays his cards to his vest, one small anecdote. A number of years ago, a new novel of his was about to appear in galleys. I told him how much I was looking forward to reading it (sometimes we send each other finished manuscripts, sometimes we wait for the galleys), and he said that I should be receiving a copy quite soon. The galleys arrived in the mail the following week, I opened the package, flipped through the book, and discovered that it was dedicated to me. I was touched, of course, deeply moved in fact—but the point is that my friend never said a word about it. Not the smallest hint, not the tiniest anticipatory wink, nothing.
What am I trying to say? That I know this man and don’t know him. That he is my friend, my dearest friend, in spite of this not-knowing. If he went out and robbed a bank tomorrow, I would be shocked. On the other hand, if I learned that he was cheating on his wife, that he had a young mistress stashed away in an apartment somewhere, I would be disappointed, but I wouldn’t be shocked. Anything is possible, and men do keep secrets, even from their c
losest friends. In the event of my friend’s marital infidelity, I would feel disappointed (because he had let down his wife, someone I am very fond of), but I would also feel hurt (because he hadn’t confided in me, which would mean our friendship wasn’t as close as I thought it was).
(A sudden brain wave. The best and most lasting friendships are based on admiration. This is the bedrock feeling that connects two people over the long term. You admire someone for what he does, for what he is, for how he negotiates his path through the world. Your admiration enhances him in your eyes, ennobles him, elevates him to a status you believe is above your own. And if that person admires you as well—and therefore enhances you, ennobles you, elevates you to a status he believes is above his own—then you are in a position of absolute equality. You are both giving more than you receive, both receiving more than you give, and in the reciprocity of this exchange, friendship blooms. From Joubert’s Notebooks (1809): “He must not only cultivate his friends, but cultivate his friendships within himself. They must be kept, cared for, watered.” And again Joubert: “We always lose the friendship of those who lose our esteem.”)
2) Boys. Childhood is the most intense period of our lives because most of what we do then we are doing for the first time. I have little to offer here but a memory, but that memory seems to underscore the infinite value we place on friendship when we are young, even very young. I was five years old. Billy, my first friend, entered my life in ways that elude me now. I remember him as an odd and jovial character with strong opinions and a highly developed talent for mischief (something I lacked to an appalling degree). He had a severe speech impediment, and when he talked his words were so garbled, so clogged with the saliva buildup in his mouth, that no one could understand what he said—except little Paul, who acted as his interpreter. Much of our time together was spent roaming around our New Jersey suburban neighborhood looking for small dead animals—mostly birds, but an occasional frog or chipmunk—and burying the corpses in the flower bed along the side of my house. Solemn rituals, handmade wooden crosses, no laughing allowed. Billy detested girls, refusing to fill in the pages of our coloring books that showed representations of female figures, and because his favorite color was green, he was convinced that the blood running through his teddy bear’s veins was green. Ecce Billy. Then, when we were six and a half or seven, he and his family moved to another town. Heartbreak, followed by weeks if not months of longing for my absent friend. At last, my mother relented and gave me permission to make the expensive telephone call to Billy’s new house. The content of our conversation has been blotted from my mind, but I remember my feelings as vividly as I remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I felt what I would later feel as an adolescent when talking on the phone to the girl I had fallen in love with.