In The Country of Last Things.

Paul Auster died today.

On numerous occasions before now I’ve expressed how influential Auster’s views of the world and of storytelling have been on my own writing. His talent for building and then interrogating a character’s inner life, his willingness to play with perspective and turn narratives on their head without warning, the ease with which he could guide his plot threads inside a hall of mirrors to reflect back upon themselves and distort the directions they might have otherwise gone — all of this has been both educational and inspiring.

There were many, many times I would get lost in one of his novels, turn a corner within one of his sentences, and discover that he had done something I didn’t realize fiction was allowed to do. I admired his literary aesthetics and I also admired his sense of humanity, which aligned with my own abiding perception that our connections, however slight or robust, are the most valuable currency we have.

If you’ve never read any of Auster’s work, then the easiest place to start is with City of Glass, the novella that first brought him broader attention and formed the first third of his “New York Trilogy.” His stylings may not suit you, which is understandable — but if they do, I suspect they may alter your lens for the rest of your life.