Bogdan Minu

AmSt MA, 2nd year

Home Is Babel
How the City Distorts Time, Space, and Memory: Bachelard and Ricoeur Applied to Auster

Part I: Setting the Glass Stage

An artifice of semantics. The difference between what Paul Auster does and what Gaston

Bachelard does. The first one a novelist. The second one critic, talks about poetry, but in a

broader sense. In actual fact, both of them deal only in words. Overgeneralizing I know, but still

valid. What perplexed me when I approached both of them, endeavoring to find relations, was their

fascination with space, to a greater extent, and time and memory, to a lesser one (although very

poignant, to say the least).

One could proceed to find connections in, or to marry, so to speak, whatever literary work

with whatever. In my short years of experience, Ive seen the wildest of approaches from various

people Ive met: Poe and Hitchcock, Homer and Tolkien, Shakespeare and George R.R. Martin.

Not to say that these are not valid on the contrary. But it all depends on the way in which you do

it. One can pin together motifs and symbols which are so far apart, that even Freud himself would

be startled by das unheimlich of the situation. In essence, thats what I tried to do here.

Using a comparatist and ekphrastic approach, I would like to explore the poetics of the

urban space that Auster presents to us in his first book in the New York Trilogy. This space can

be seen as a physical one, New York as an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps

(Auster 4), or transform into the psyche of Quinn. The streets of the metropolis are, ultimately, the

unintelligible links between the multiple personalities. The man of Manhattan becomes the map of

Quinns egos. The streets give the feeling of being lost, so Quinn is lost in and around his own

selves: he becomes a shadow of the original man. His others have chomped off pieces of the whole

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to the point where the original becomes a chip of glass a deranged man writing frantically in a

red notebook.

For starters, you cant say no to this quote: all really inhabited space bears the essence of

the notion of home (Bachelard 59). Its one of the basic ideas that drive the whole thesis of the

French critic. And thus we get to the book: what is this city of glass? And more importantly: is it

a home? For, of course, it represents inhabited space. For the broken I of the novella, it could

symbolize many things. Lets take a piece at a time.

The ego of the main character of Austers book, arguably Quinn, is an Inigma. Much fitting

Georges Poulets metaphor of the metamorphosis of the circle, this character is a perfect circle of

glass. At first, the innocent reader assumes this self still perfectly coherent. There are no cracks in

the glass. But from the very first pages, we already begin to see its brokenness. Daniel Quinn

publishes novels under the pen-name of William Wilson. The theme of the double. Already three

cracks: Quinn is split in two: himself and Wilson, who is also split in two (the experienced reader

will also see the outline of another, greater circle representing Paul Auster, the narrator).

William Wilson, after all, was an invention, and even though he had been born within

Quinn himself, he now led an independent life. Quinn treated him with deference, at times even

admiration, but he never went so far as to believe that he and William Wilson were the same man.

It was for this reason that he did not emerge from behind the mask of his pseudonym. (Auster 5)

Then again, we have the original William Wilson, courtesy of Edgar Allan Poe. There, the narrator

again merges the two Wilsons and himself into a singularity. However, unlike Quinn who admires

his invention, Poes Wilson sees a rival in his namesake, which we are led to believe is actually a

real human, until the very end where the boundaries of selves become distorted. So this singularity

is held together by nothing else except the text the will of the narrator. It forces us to see the two

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Wilsons as one, from beginning to end. The death then is both a reduction: both parts of the same

man kill each other, and doing so they finally become one: man and his conscience. Upon death,

the latter is no longer a voice whispering morality into someones mind, it becomes that someone.

Back to the City of Glass, that someone here is Paul Auster the detective. Having no previous

experience as a private eye (another play upon words), Quinn must stay faithful to the reputation

of a man that does not exist. Thus, he identifies with another self that of Max Work. Work is

another invention, the crime solver of the books by William Wilson. In this whole charade, one

wonders how there can still be a place for Quinn.

Of course, when Quinn first presents himself to Peter Stillman the father, he gives his own

name. Then he gives the name of Henry Dark which we learn is actually Peter Stillman himself.

Then he gives the name of the other Peter Stillman. While doing this, he defends his other three

identities: Paul Auster, Max Work, and William Wilson. Of course, he cannot say hes Work for

there is a danger he would be recognized as an author. He then cannot say hes Auster nor Wilson

because both of these identities are essentially the ones hes trying to emulate, and to defend. Thus,

we may first see his giving the name Quinn as a return to oneself. However, this couldnt be farther

from the truth. Prompted to give a false identity, he gives his actual one. The name Daniel Quinn,

like Don Quixote has become so estranged from the actual person that it bears no meaning

anymore. Quinn is a man with no friends, no wife, no children, for whom everything is lost, in the

end even his home. William Wilson is a successful writer. Max Work is a successful detective.

Paul Auster is a renowned private eye. Henry Dark is a controversial scientist. Peter Stillman is a

genius gone mad. Theres no more room in this circle of glass for Quinn himself.

The cracks in the smaller circle become apparent the moment Quinn has the revelations

about Stillmans daily wanderings. The circle of glass is no longer a circle, but a city. Tracing

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Stillmans steps, Quinn deduces that the man is writing Tower of Babel on the streets of

Manhattan. Coincidentally, its on the very next day that Quinn decides to approach Stillman. He

forgets that Stillman had only written tower of babe and would be supposed to finish his writing

that very day by adding an L.

Stillman retreated to Riverside Park, this time to the edge of it, coming to rest on a knobby

outcrop at 84th Street known as Mount Tom. On this same spot, in the summers of 1843 and 1844,

Edgar Allan Poe had spent many long hours gazing out at the

Hudson. (Auster 82)

There is no coincidence that this is the exact day in which Stillman disappears and Quinn

begins his descent into madness. This is the moment the circle closes. A circle which began in

1843 when Poe first stood himself in the park. The map of Manhattan and that of Quinns mind

become one. Space, time, and memory become a mush in the caldron of the city. This is, to me,

not just a fitting case for psychoanalysis, but for Gaston Bachelards idea of topoanalysis:

Topoanalysis, then, would be the systematic psychological study of the sites of our
intimate lives. In the theater of the past that is constituted by memory, the stage
setting maintains the characters in their dominant roles. At times we think we know
ourselves in time, when all we know is a sequence of fixations in the spaces of the
beings stability a being who does not want to melt away, and who, even in the
past, when he sets out in search of things past, wants time to suspend its flight.
In its countless alveoli space contains compressed time. Time is what space is for.
(Bachelard 64)

The above quotation will stand as the basis for the continuation of this analysis. In my

opinion, Bachelard here reaches some fundamental truths about the nature of memory in relation

to time and space. Therefore, the focus of the next part will be Quinns fall from grace and the

transformation from a troubled individual towards broken man. I will pose questions regarding the

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role of the space of the city in this transformation, continuing the connections between the map of

the city and the map of the human mind.

The glass stage has been set, its time to move on.

Part II: On the Thin Ice

The enclosed space of his consciousness becomes the world. Within this world, it does not

matter to Quinn whether he is homeless. The transformation occurs naturally. What before his

breakdown were the tramps, the down-and-outs, the shopping-bag ladies, the drifters and drunks

(Auster 106) have now become him. Or rather, he has become them. The resulting Quinn becomes

childlike in two ways: he cannot complete the maze of the city because he hasnt got the final piece

and he regains an innocence of thought. Like a computer program, the multitude of errors given

by the split selves prompts him to reset to an earlier state of mind.

We find a key to Quinns puzzle in theories by Paul Ricoeur. In Oneself as Another, the

French philosopher aptly breaks down the complicated web of selves that makes up an identity.

In his words, identity can be understood as sameness and as selfhood. Both concepts need to be

discussed in relation with Quinn so that we can understand just what happened to him. Speaking

about sameness as the relation of relations to other parts of ones identity, we start to see Austers

puppet for what it is. Each string that links the puppet to the authors hand represents a different

self for Quinn. Each of these strings is connected to the final Quinn through relations of sameness,

selfhood, or both.

Sameness is a concept of relation and a relation of relations. First comes numerical

identity: thus, we say of two occurrences of a thing, designated by an invariable
noun in ordinary language, that they do not form two different things but "one and
the same" thing. Here, identity denotes oneness: the contrary is plurality (not one
but two or several). To this first component of the notion of identity corresponds

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 the notion of identification, understood in the sense of the reidentification of the
same, which makes cognition recognition: the same thing twice, n times.

In second place we find qualitative identity, in other words, extreme resemblance:

we say that x and y are wearing the same suit that is, clothes that are so similar
that they are interchangeable with no noticeable difference. (Ricoeur, Oneself as
Another 116)

We will dismiss the qualitative identity for the simple reason that Austers text does not

deal with such details. We are left to assume that the extreme resemblance is implied.

The plain numerical identity of Quinn rests in all the characters whose names he adopts

throughout the novel. These are a listed in the first part of this discussion: Quinn, Auster, Max

Work, William Wilson, Henry Dark, Peter Stillman. Six total selves inside one numerical identity.

As for reidentification, Quinn regains cognition of himself at several points in time and space

throughout the city of glass that is Manhattan. At first he is Quinn at home, then he is Quinn once

more when speaking with Stillman, and then when he finds the real Paul Auster. Between these

three moments, he juggles with the other identities. He reads about Henry Dark and then becomes

him. He meets with one Peter Stillman, he searches for the other Peter Stillman, and then he

becomes him. This struggling identity is on an insane quest to lose itself within itself over and over

again. As if through some weird form of amnesia, Quinn insists on forgetting himself while trying

to be the subject of his own search. He looks for meaning to complement his mission for Peter

Stillman the son.

For Quinn, the author of trashy detective stories, New York has become a site of
oblivion, of an amnesia which enables him to engage in the joyless, mechanistic
process of putting words on paper. Quinn can write only by flooding himself with
externals, by drowning himself out of himself. (Gilloch and Kilby 8)

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 The habit of Quinn the author proves fatal for Quinn the character. In a search for some

sort of meaning, Quinn resorts to what he knows best, i.e. flooding his own identity with other

selves to the point of breakdown.

This quest, which is a constant play with sameness and cognition, is (intentionally) placed

in the space of New York. The place of the city is the only one where one can both loose and find

his selves within a short period of time. Bachelard said that in its countless alveoli space contains

compressed time. In his maddening breakdown, Quinn looks for his former selves by wandering

the streets of New York. This is his way of trying to go back in time and space.

He first goes to Paul Auster. In a superb postmodern metaphor, this is a symbolic cry for

help from the character to his narrator. The result is even more identity-shattering: his whole quest

has lost its meaning. Not only does he not find Quinn there, he finds Auster turning his back on

him (he hung up), and he finds the original Peter Stillman is dead. One by one, he now starts to

lose his numerical identity.

He then goes to his apartment. A recap is necessary: he is now searching for the Quinn he

was at the beginning. His other two identifications are completely lost in the time and space of

New York City. He has some memory of them, and he tries to find them. According to Ricoeur,

this would be the search for selfhood. Quinn is not trying to find only instances of identity, i.e. a

numerical identity. Before his breakdown, he was assuming externals in order to spy on Peter

Stillman. Now, after his breakdown, he is searching for the former externals in order to

complement himself.

Quinn had lost Quinn.

At 84th Street he paused momentarily in front of a shop. There was a mirror on the
faade, and for the first time since he had begun his vigil, Quinn saw himself. []
Now, as he looked at himself in the shop mirror, he was neither shocked nor
disappointed. He had no feeling about it at all, for the fact that he did not recognize

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 the person he saw there as himself. He thought that he had spotted a stranger in the
mirror. (Auster 117)

He has lost his substance, he has lost himself in time and space, and he needs to find them

before he loses his selfhood completely. He searches for the times he was himself, by looking in

the space alveoli in which Quinn was Quinn, seeking to find his permanent ego.

[] is there a form of permanence in time which is not simply the schema of the
category of substance? Returning to the terms of the opposition which has
repeatedly appeared in the earlier studies, we ask, Is there a form of permanence
in time which can be connected to the question "who?" inasmuch as it is irreducible
to any question of "what?"? Is there a form of permanence in time that is a reply
to the question "Who am I?"? (Ricoeur, Oneself as Another 119)

So, the last Quinn-self that he remembers is from his meeting with Paul Auster, the writer.

There he finds rejection. This temporal instance of his identity has lost cognition. He subsequently

finds out that Peter Stillman is dead. Therefore, the Quinn that spoke with him is also gone. To

help us see this metaphorically, we can picture their meeting as a crack in the city of glass. All the

while Quinn was having his homeless stage, this crack has been repaired. So: his only remaining

refuge is his home. There he was Quinn, there he was Max Work, and there he was William

Wilson.

However, when he reaches his home, everything is gone. No trace of his former selves is

present: it was gone, he was gone, everything was gone. (Auster 123)

What other selves could still be there? Hes lost Peter Stillman, Henry Dark, Paul Auster

the writer, William Wilson, Max Work, and he subsequently lost all of his recognitions as Quinn.

Could it be that the only self remaining was Paul Auster, the detective?

By going back to Peter Stillmans apartment, the story makes a full circle. The city of glass

has undone a man. All the windows to his selves have been replaced. Time and space, the means

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by which Quinn identified who he was, have been distorted. The great big puppeteer, Auster the

narrator, has replaced every single letter glass piece upon which Quinn had left his mark. In his

desperate search, he finds nothing. Quinn has lost his identity: he has lost all numerical selves, his

sameness, his Quinns, and his selfhood.

The lyrics of a Pink Floyd song go: if you should go skating on the thin ice of modern life

[] dont be surprised when a crack in the ice appears under your feet. Quinn went skating on

thin ice of the city (representing, of course, modern life). Being experienced, he had begun to trust

the cracks in the ice. He fell through these cracks knowing that in the distorted time and space of

the city, he would be able to go back. However, like a detective betrayed by his surroundings,

Quinn discovers that hes trapped outside of himself. He slips out of his mind and what remains is

a shadow. In a desperate attempt to escape from nonexistence, this shadow has one last resort.

Part 3: Escape
The placing of the novel ad absurdum isnt coincidental. Quinn, lying on the floor of an

empty apartment, is piecing together whats left of his identity. The red notebook becomes the last,

however much an imperfect copy of Quinn. It is in this notebook that everything still exists. Yet,

the more he writes, the more he fears the impending end of the notebook. This is the Quinn we

dont get to see. The Quinn he is writing about in the red notebook is his fourth recognition. And,

in the end, this last glimmer of identity is all that remains.

If we consider all this, the fact that Quinn is missing in the last scene of the book is

extremely predictable. He had poured all that remained of him into the notebook until the physical

Quinn had disappeared in the words of Auster himself. New York is now covered in white. Its

immaculacy is a blanket put over the eyes of the world. We cannot see Quinn because he is no

more. The purity of the snow serves to reset the city of glass for one more year.
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 If were to believe the eternal Jean Baudrillard, New York acts out its own catastrophe

like a stage play (America 21). The catastrophe here is Quinns descent into madness. His identity

ripped apart by the two main characters of this theater of remembrance: Time and Space. Quinn

subjects his identity to a topoanalysis. This topoanalysis is a systematic psychological study of the

sites of his life (to go back to Bachelard). Therefore, after Quinns desperate wanderings through

the turbulent, lively, kinetic, and cinematic (17) streets of New York, Quinn turns his red

notebook the only evidence of all that had happened. His attempt to rewrite himself is look back

at the places where he was himself in the urban organism.

Here, we are reminded of another side of memory: collective remembering. Sartre

beautifully plays with this theme in The Flies. Ricoeur, in another essay, refers to this when

speaking about memory as a mental image:

[] it can be affirmed that a specific search for truth is implied in the intending of
the past thing, of what was formerly seen, heard, experienced, learned. This
search for truth determines memory as a cognitive issue. More precisely, in the
moment of recognition, in which the effort of recollection is completed, this search
for truth declares itself. We then feel and indeed know that something has
happened, something has taken place, which implicated us as agents, as patients,
as witnesses. (Memory, History, Forgetting 55)

Ricoeur goes on to call this type of memory faithfulness. It is precisely this type of faithfulness

that burdens the collective memory of the people of Argos. In an effort to rid his people of remorse,

Orestes takes all their crimes (crimes through inaction) upon himself. There are now allowed to

forget and thus to live without remorse as Orestes walks into the light carrying all the flies of his

people with him.

Fast forward to New York, the case is totally opposed to that of Argos. In a world

completely rotten with wealth, power, senility, indifference, puritanism and mental hygiene,

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poverty and waste, technological futility, and aimless violence (Baudrillard 22), something as

minor as Quinn is easily forgotten. The subject of Peter Stillman makes headlines and then is

quickly swept away. Peter Stillman the son disappears. Quinn himself is thought to have

disappeared and life moves on without him. His own existence being denied, Quinn attempts to

translate his recent memories into the world. For a man who has left nothing in the world, who

constantly avoided attention through adopting different selves into his identity, Quinn is now

surprisingly desperate to leave some footprints before he leaves.

But he is helpless. The red notebook, of course, is only half the story, as any sensitive

reader will understand. (Auster 130) The second have has forever disappeared. In a search for the

identity of his selfhood, Quinn is looking for the space alveoli in which his time existed. He cannot

find them. Yet this is not because he doesnt try hard enough, but because the city has already

evolved beyond him. In his play, the torn Daniel Quinn is trying to remember himself, but hes

blind: Time and Space have already forgotten him, so he could never recognize his identity. Quinn

is broken, and, like the umbrella can no longer be himself. The city throws Quinn onto the floor in

disgust, where he has nothing left to do but to spill his remaining existence chaotically onto blank

pages of memory.

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Works Cited

Auster, Paul. "City of Glass." The New York Trilogy. New York: Penguin Books, 2006. 1-130.

eBook.

Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. New York: Penguin Books, 2004. eBook.

Baudrillard, Jean. America. Trans. Chris Turner. London: The Bath Press, 1996. eBook.

Gilloch, Graeme and Jane Kilby. "Trauma and Memory in the City: From Auster to Austerlitz."

Crinson, Mark. Urban Memory. New York: Routledge, 2005. 1-22. eBook.

Ricoeur, Paul. Memory, History, Forgetting. Trans. Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006. eBook.

. Oneself as Another. Trans. Katherine Blamey. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

eBook.

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