vendredi 6 août 2010

Paul Auster, LEVIATHAN, New York, Penguin Books, 1992

There was a mountain of books in front of me, millions of words piled on each other, a whole universe of discarded literature - the books that people no longer wanted, that had been sold, that had outlived their usefulness. I didn't realize it at first, but I happened to be standing in the American fiction section, and right there, at eye level, the first thing I saw when I started to look at the titles, was a copy of The New Colossus, my own little contribution to this graveyard. It was an astonishing coincidence, a thing that hit me so hard I felt it had to be an omen.
Don't ask me why I bought it. I had no intention of reading the book, but once I saw it there on the shelf, I knew I had to have it. The physical object, the thing itself. It cost only five dollars for the original hardcover edition, complete with dust jacket and purple endpapers. And there was my picture on the back flap: the portrait of the artist as a young moron. Fanny took that photo, I remember. I was twenty-six or twenty-seven at the time, with my beard and long hair, and I'm staring into the lens with an unbelievably earnest, soulful expression in my eyes. You've seen that picture, you know the one I'm talking about. When I opened up the book and saw it in the store that day, I almost burst out laughing.
(p. 254-255)

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