The Invention of Solitude

writing this story a long time ago, long before my father died.
    Night after night, lying awake in bed, my eyes open in the dark ness. The impossibility of sleep, the impossibility of not thinking about how he died. I find myself sweating between the sheets, try ing to imagine what it feels like to suffer a heart attack. Adrenalin pumps through me, my head pounds, and my whole body seems to contract into a small area behind my chest. A need to experience the same panic, the same mortal pain.
    And then, at night, there are the dreams, nearly every night. In one of them, which woke me up just hours ago, I learned from the teenage daughter of my father ’ s lady friend that she, the daughter, had been made pregnant by my father. Because she was so young, it was agreed that my wife and I would raise the child after it was born. The baby was going to be a boy. Everyone knew this in advance.
    It is equally true, perhaps, that once this story has ended, it will go on telling itself, even after the words have been used up.
     
    The old gentleman at the funeral was my great uncle, Sam Auster, now almost ninety years old. Tall, hairless, a high-pitched, rasping voice. Not a word about the events of 1919, and I did not have the heart to ask him. I took care of Sam when he was a little boy, he said. But that was all.
    When asked if he wanted anything to drink, he requested a glass of hot water. Lemon? No thank you, just hot water.
    Again Blanchot: “ But I am no longer able to speak of it. ”
     
    From the house: a document from St. Clair County in the State of Alabama duly announcing my parents ’ divorce. The signature at the bottom: Ann W. Love.
     
    From the house: a watch, a few sweaters, a jacket, an alarm clock, six tennis rackets, and an old rusted Buick that barely runs. A set of dishes, a coffee table, three or four lamps. A barroom statue of Johnnie Walker for Daniel. The blank photograph album, This Is Our Life: The Austers.
    At first I thought it would be a comfort to hold on to these things, that they would remind me of my father and make me think of him as I went about my life. But objects, it seems, are no more than objects. I am used to them now, I have begun to think of them as my own. I read time by his watch, I wear his sweaters, I drive around in his car. But all this is no more than an illusion of intimacy. I have already appropriated these things. My father has vanished from them, has become invisible again. And sooner or later they will break down, fall apart, and have to be thrown away. I doubt that it will even seem to matter.
     
    “ … here it holds good that only he who works gets the bread, only he who was in anguish finds repose, only he who descends into the underworld rescues the beloved, only he who draws the knife gets Isaac …. He who will not work must take note of what is writ ten about the maidens of Israel, for he gives birth to the wind, but he who is willing to work gives birth to his own father. ” (Kierkegaard)
     
    Past two in the morning. An overflowing ashtray, an empty cof fee cup, and the cold of early spring. An image of Daniel now, as he lies upstairs in his crib asleep. To end with this.
    To wonder what he will make of these pages when he is old enough to read them.
    And the image of his sweet and ferocious little body, as he lies upstairs in his crib asleep. To end with this.
    (1979

The Book of Memory

     
    “ When the dead weep, they are beginning to recover, ” said the Crow solemnly.
    “ I am sorry to contradict my famous friend and colleague, ” said the Owl, “ but as far as I ’ m concerned, I think that when the dead weep, it means they do not want to die. ”
    —Collodi, The Adventures of Pinocchio
     

     
    H e lays out a piece of blank paper on the table before him and writes these words with his pen. It was. It will never be again.
    Later that same day he returns to his room. He finds a fresh sheet of paper and lays it out on the table before him. He writes until he has covered the entire page with words. Later, when he reads over what he has written, he has trouble deciphering the words. Those he does manage to understand do not seem to say what he thought he was saying. Then he goes out to eat his dinner.
    That night he tells himself that tomorrow is another day. New words begin to clamor in his head, but he does not write them down. He decides to refer to himself as A. He walks back and forth between the table and the window. He turns on the radio