Culture
In Her New Memoir, Siri Hustvedt Captures Life With, And Without, Paul Auster
Siri Hustvedt was halfway through a new novel, about a writer tasked with completing his father’s unfinished manuscript, when her husband, the novelist Paul Auster, died from lung cancer.
Continuing that story in his absence felt impossible. They were together for 43 years, the length of her career. She’d never published a book without his reading a draft of it first.
Two weeks later, in the Brooklyn townhouse they shared, she sat down and wrote the first two sentences of a new book: “I am alive. My husband, Paul Auster, is dead.”
“It was the only thing I could write about,” she said.
She wrote about her feelings of dislocation: how she vividly smelled cigar smoke, even though Auster had quit smoking nine years before; how she woke up disoriented on his side of the bed and got into the bath with her socks still on; how she felt a kind of “cognitive splintering” that bordered on derangement. She had lost not only her husband, but also the person she had been with him. She felt faded and washed-out, like an overexposed photograph.
Those reflections grew into “Ghost Stories,” Hustvedt’s memoir about her life with and without Auster. Partly a book about grief and its psychological and physiological side effects, it’s also a revealing and intimate glimpse into a literary marriage — the buoyant moments of their early courtship, their deep involvement in each other’s work, their inside jokes (“I’ll have the lamb for two for one”).
She also writes publicly for the first time about the tragedies the family endured several years ago, when Auster’s son, Daniel, who struggled with addiction, took heroin while his infant daughter Ruby was in his care, and woke up to find she wasn’t breathing. He was later charged with criminally negligent homicide, after an examination found that her death was caused by acute intoxication from opioids. Soon after he was released on bail, Daniel, 44, died of a drug overdose.
A few months later, Auster started to come down with fevers, and doctors later discovered he had cancer. He reacted to the news as perhaps only a novelist would — lamenting that dying from cancer would be such an obvious, unsatisfying ending to a life marked by so much tragedy.
“He said so many times, it would make for a bad story,” Hustvedt said. “It was so predetermined, almost, and he hated predictable stories.”
Tall and lanky with short blond hair, Hustvedt, who is 71, met me on an April afternoon at the elegant, art and book-filled townhouse in Park Slope where the couple lived for 30 years. She took me to the sunlit second floor library, where Auster spent his final days, surrounded by his family and books. “He loved this room,” Hustvedt said.
“I’ll show you his now quiet typewriter,” she said, leading me down to Auster’s office on the ground floor, which felt as tranquil and carefully preserved as a shrine. A desk held a small travel typewriter, an Olivetti, and next to it, his larger Olympia. “Click clack, it really made noise,” Hustvedt said.
Auster rose to fame in the 1980s thanks to postmodern novels like “City of Glass” and “Moon Palace,” which explore the mysteries and unreliability of memory and perception. Hustvedt gained renown for heady and cerebral literary novels that include “The Blazing World,” “What I Loved” and “The Summer Without Men.”
They were each other’s first readers, sharpest editors and biggest fans. They even shared characters — Auster borrowed Iris Vegan, the heroine of Hustvedt’s 1992 novel “The Blindfold,” and extended her story in his novel “Leviathan,” published the same year. (Critics and readers assumed she had used his character, not the other way around.)
“We were very different writers and always were, and that was part of the pleasure in the other’s work,” Hustvedt said.
Friends of the couple who have read “Ghost Stories” said they were moved by Hustvedt’s loving but not hagiographic portrait of her husband.
Salman Rushdie, who visited Auster just a few days before he died, said Hustvedt’s vivid portrayal of Auster — who was witty, warm and expansive, always ready with a joke — captured a side of him that was rarely reflected in his public image as a celebrated literary figure.
“He’s very present on the page,” Rushdie said. “They were so tightly knit, and Paul was Siri’s greatest champion. They were deeply engaged in each other’s work.”
Hustvedt was 26, a budding writer who had just published a poem in the Paris Review, when she met Auster, 34, after a reading at the 92nd Street Y. He was wearing a black leather jacket, smoking, and she was instantly smitten.
They went downtown to a party, then to a bar in Tribeca, and talked all night. He was married to the writer Lydia Davis, but they had separated. He showed her a photo of his and Davis’s 3-year-old son, Daniel. They kissed as she was about to get into a taxi, and he went home with her to her apartment on 109th Street.
Shortly after they began seeing each other, Auster broke it off and told her that he had to return to his wife and son. She won him back with ardent, unabashed love letters that she quotes in “Ghost Stories”: “I love you. I’m not leaving yet, not until I am banished.”
In 1982, a few days after Auster’s divorce, they got married. They were so broke that guests had to pay for their own dinners.
Their writing careers evolved in parallel, but Auster’s fame eclipsed Hustvedt’s. She often found herself belittled by interviewers who asked her what it was like to be married to a literary genius, and whether her husband wrote her books.
“People used to ask me what my favorite book of Paul’s was; no one would ever ask him that,” Hustvedt recalled.
When Hustvedt complained about the disparity, Auster joked that the next time a journalist asked what it was like to be married to him, she should brag about his skills as a lover.
The slights persisted even after Hustvedt had established herself as a formidable literary talent. “One imagines that will go away, but it didn’t,” she said. She’s sometimes felt reduced to “Paul Auster’s wife” even after his death: At a recent reading, a fan of his work asked if she took comfort in reading his books in his absence, as if the real loss was the death of the literary eminence, not the man she loved.
She felt the weight of his reputation acutely when Auster died, and news of his death spread online just moments after he stopped breathing, before the family had time to tell people close to him.
The shadow Auster’s fame cast over the family became especially pronounced when scandal and tragedy struck.
In “Ghost Stories,” Hustvedt details a side of Auster’s personal life that he closely guarded: his relationship with Daniel, whose drug use and shiftiness was a constant source of worry. As a teenager, he stole more than $13,000 from her bank account, her German royalties. In 2000, Auster and Hustvedt learned that Daniel had forged his transcripts from SUNY Purchase after he had promised to re-enroll; he hadn’t, and kept the tuition money.
After each breach of trust, she and Auster forgave him.
“I have to leave the door open, just a crack,” Paul said about Daniel, Hustvedt recalls in “Ghost Stories.”
She writes about rushing to the hospital in Park Slope, where Daniel’s daughter was pronounced dead: “It’s the image of her small, perfect dead body in the hospital on Nov. 1, 2021, that forces itself on me.”
The shock of Ruby’s death, followed by Daniel’s arrest and overdose, was made even more unbearable by the media frenzy. Auster and Hustvedt were hounded by reporters, and made no comment.
“We were not in a position to speak about it when it happened, it was all so shocking and overwhelming and trying to deal with your feelings was more than enough,” Hustvedt told me.
But she felt she had to write about Daniel and Ruby in “Ghost Stories” because their lives and deaths were a crucial part of the family’s story, yet had been reduced to lurid tabloid fodder, she said.
“It would not have been possible to write this book and pretend that these horrible things didn’t happen,” she said. “I also didn’t want the horrible things to overwhelm the book, and that’s a tricky thing, because it’s so horrible, you feel it has to be there, but it isn’t the whole story.”
Before he died, Auster told Hustvedt he wanted that story to be told.
“I didn’t feel that I was betraying him,” she said.
Auster and Hustvedt’s daughter, Sophie Auster, a musician who lives in Brooklyn, said reading her mother’s memoir was painful, but she also felt her father’s voice and presence in its pages.
“Opening the book was extremely difficult for me, but you just sink in,” she said. “She doesn’t let you sit in the sorrow for too long. There’s a lot of life and a lot of joy.”
Hustvedt found it strange to write “Ghost Stories” without sharing drafts with Auster, her habit throughout her career. But often, his voice popped into her head.
“I kind of heard him in my ear, saying things like, ‘That’s a wavy sentence, straighten that thing out,’” she said.
After finishing the memoir, Hustvedt went back to the novel she’d been working on when Auster died. She realized she had to rewrite the first half entirely.
At 53, and after more than a decade in the industry, things are happening for the romance writer Kennedy Ryan that were not on her bingo card.
The most recent: a first look deal with Universal Studio Group that will allow her to develop various projects, including a Peacock adaptation of her breakout 2022 novel “Before I Let Go,” the first book in her Skyland trilogy, which considers love and friendship among three Black women in a community inspired by contemporary Atlanta.
With a TV series in development, Ryan — who published her debut novel in 2014 and subsequently self-published — joins Tia Williams and Alanna Bennett at a table with few other Black romance writers.
“What I am most excited about is the opportunity to identify other authors’ work, especially marginalized authors, and to shepherd those projects from book to screen,” said Ryan, a former journalist. (Kennedy Ryan is a pen name.) “We are seeing an explosion in romance adaptations right now, and I want to see more Black, brown and queer authors.”
Her latest novel, “Score,” is set to publish on Tuesday. It’s the second volume in her Hollywood Renaissance series, after “Reel,” about an actress with a chronic illness who falls for her director on the set of a biopic set during the Harlem Renaissance. The new book follows a screenwriter and a musician, once romantically involved, working on the same movie.
In a recent interview (edited and condensed for clarity), Ryan shared the highs and lows of commercial success; her commitment to happy endings; and her north star. Spoiler: It isn’t what readers think of her books on TikTok.
Your work has been categorized as Black romance, but how do you see yourself as a writer?
I see myself as a romance writer. I think the season that I’m in right now, I’m most interested in Black romance, and that’s what I’ve been writing for the last few years. It doesn’t mean that I won’t write anything else, because I don’t close those doors. But the timeline we’re in is one where I really want to promote Black love, Black art and Black history.
What intrigued you about the period of history you capture in the Hollywood Renaissance series?
I’ve always been fascinated by the Harlem Renaissance and the years immediately following. It felt like a natural era to explore when I was examining overlooked accomplishments by Black creatives. I loved the art as agitation and resistance seen in the lives of people like James Baldwin or Zora Neale Hurston, but also figures like Josephine Baker, Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge, who people may not think of as “revolutionary.” The fact that they were even in those spaces was its own act of rebellion.
What about that period feels resonant now?
The series celebrates Black art and Black history and love at a time when I see all three under attack. Our art is being diminished and our history is being erased before our very eyes. I don’t hold back on the relationship between what I see going on in the world and the books I write.
How does this moment in your career feel?
I didn’t get my first book deal until I was in my 40s, so I think this is the best job I’ve ever had. I’m wanting to make the most of it, not just for myself, but for other people, and I think the temptation is to believe that it will all go away because that’s my default.
Why would it all go away?
Part of it is because we — my family, my husband and I — have had some really hard times, especially early in our marriage when my son was diagnosed with autism, my husband lost his job, and we experienced hard times financially. I’ll never forget that.
When I say it could all go away, I mean things change, the industry changes, what people respond to changes, what people buy and want to consume changes. So I don’t assume that what I am doing is always going to be something that people want.
Why are you so firmly committed to defending the “happy ending” in romance novels?
It is integral to the definition of the genre that it ends happily. Some people will say it’s just predictable every one ends happily. I am fine with that, living in a world that is constantly bombarding us with difficulty, with hurt, with challenge.
I write books that are deeply curious about the human condition. In “Score,” the heroine has bipolar disorder, she’s bisexual, there’s all of this intersectionality. For me, there is no safer genre landscape to unpack these issues and these conditions because I know there is guaranteed joy at the end.
You have a pretty active TikTok account. How do you engage with reviews and commentary on the platform about you or the genre?
First of all, I believe that reader spaces are sacred. Sometimes I see authors get embroiled with readers who have criticized them. I never ever comment on critical reviews. I definitely do see the negative. It’s impossible for me not to, but I just kind of ignore it. I let it roll off.
How does this apply to being a very visible Black author in romance?
I am very cognizant of this space that I’m in right now, which is a blessing, and I don’t take it for granted. I see a lot of discourse online where people are like, “Kennedy’s not the only one,” “Why Kennedy?,” “There should be more Black authors.” And I’m like, Oh my God, I know that. I am constantly looking for ways to amplify other Black authors. I want to hold the door open and pull them along.
How do you define success for yourself at this point?
I have a little bit of a mission statement: I want to write stories that will crater in people’s hearts and create transformational moments. Whether it’s television or publishing, am I sticking true to what I feel like is one of the things I was put on this earth to do? I’m a P.K., or preacher’s kid. We’re always thinking about purpose. And for me, how do I fit into this genre? What is my lane? What is my legacy? Which sounds so obnoxious, you know, but legacy is very important to me.
Welcome to Great Adaptations, the Book Review’s regular multiple-choice quiz about printed works that have gone on to find new life as movies, television shows, theatrical productions and more. This week’s challenge highlights the screen adaptations of popular books for middle-grade and young adult readers. Just tap or click your answers to the five questions below. Scroll down after you finish the last question for links to the books and their screen versions.
In an email interview, she talked about why she followed up a memoir with “Poetry Says It Better” — and when and why she leans on the “For Dummies” series. SCOTT HELLER
Describe your ideal reading experience.
Next to a warm fire in a house in the woods. Barring that, at home in bed.
How have your reading tastes changed over time?
When I first began reading, I read fiction. My favorite novel was “The Magic Mountain,” by Thomas Mann. Over the years I find that I am less interested in fiction and more interested in trying to learn about science and mathematics. I love the “For Dummies” series. I remember reading or hearing many years ago, maybe in high school, that the first law of thermodynamics is that energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only change form. So, I was thrilled to learn there was such a book as “Thermodynamics for Dummies.” It was interesting reading, but I’m afraid I could not quote you anything from that book.
What’s the best book you’ve ever received as a gift?
I received the “Rubaiyat” of Omar Khayyám from someone, probably from my first husband, Bill. It stimulated my love of poetry, beautifully illustrated books and also my fascination with the East and the Mideast.
Why write “Poetry Says It Better” rather than, say, a follow-up to your 2006 memoir?
“Poetry Says It Better” has some references to my life, but I feel I wrote enough about myself in my memoir, and I include some of my personal history in this book.
You write that you’ve memorized poems your whole adult life. What’s the last poem you memorized?
I am working on “Shadows,” by D.H. Lawrence. I am trying to get that securely in my memory. Of course, at 93 I am not as good at memorizing as I used to be, or at holding on to what I have already memorized. But it is good exercise for the memory to use it.
You quote a line from Kaveh Akbar: “Art is where what we survive survives.” Why does that line resonate so much for you?
That line is so meaningful to me because I know that the difficult first 18 years of my life is the emotional library I descend into for every part I’ve ever played, and every poem that has landed in my heart.
Of all the characters you’ve played across different media, which role felt the richest — the most novelistic?
I would have to say Lois in “The Last Picture Show.” She was a character I didn’t really understand right away. I had to dig for her. She was multidimensional. I feel literary characters are like that.
What’s the best book about acting, or the life of an actor, you’ve ever read?
I have to name two. “My Life in Art,” by Konstantin Stanislavsky, and “A Dream of Passion,” by Lee Strasberg.
How do you organize your books?
I’ve collected my library for 70 years. All my classic literature is together, on two facing walls in the front of my living room. On the other end of the room, I have my art books. Facing them are my travel and music books. On the fourth wall are some of my science books.
In the large entrance hall, I have one standing bookcase of the complete Carl Jung collection, and near it another bookcase of poetry anthologies. In my kitchen office are all the books about food. Then I have a writing room that contains books of poetry and science, and my Sufi books. In my bedroom are my spiritual and religious books.
What books are on your night stand?
Currently: “Anam Cara: Spiritual Wisdom From the Celtic World,” by John O’Donohue; “Prayers of the Cosmos,” by Neil Douglas Klotz; “The Courage to Create,” by Rollo May; “Radical Love,” by Omid Safi; Pema Chödrön’s “How We Live Is How We Die”; “The Trial of Socrates,” by I.F. Stone; “Our Green Heart: The Soul and Science of Forests,” by Diana Beresford-Kroeger; and “On Living and Dying Well,” by Cicero.
What book might people be surprised to find on your shelves?
Probably Ken Wilber’s “A Brief History of Everything” and Michio Kaku’s “Physics of the Future.” These are two of my favorite books. I love to read books on science that are not written for scientists but for curious readers like me.
You’re organizing a literary dinner party. Which three writers, dead or alive, do you invite?
Oh, definitely Mary Oliver, my favorite poet of all time, and Edgar Allan Poe. The thought of those two people talking to each other. Finally, Tennessee Williams, who’s written some of the greatest plays ever.
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