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Travels in the Scriptorium: A Novel
     

Travels in the Scriptorium: A Novel

3.5 17
by Paul Auster
 

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A man pieces together clues to his past—and the identity of his captors—in this fantastic, labyrinthine novel

An old man awakens, disoriented, in an unfamiliar chamber. With no memory of who he is or how he has arrived there, he pores over the relics on the desk, examining the circumstances of his confinement and searching his own hazy mind

Overview

A man pieces together clues to his past—and the identity of his captors—in this fantastic, labyrinthine novel

An old man awakens, disoriented, in an unfamiliar chamber. With no memory of who he is or how he has arrived there, he pores over the relics on the desk, examining the circumstances of his confinement and searching his own hazy mind for clues.

Determining that he is locked in, the man—identified only as Mr. Blank—begins reading a manuscript he finds on the desk, the story of another prisoner, set in an alternate world the man doesn't recognize. Nevertheless, the pages seem to have been left for him, along with a haunting set of photographs. As the day passes, various characters call on the man in his cell—vaguely familiar people, some who seem to resent him for crimes he can't remember—and each brings frustrating hints of his identity and his past. All the while an overhead camera clicks and clicks, recording his movements, and a microphone records every sound in the room. Someone is watching.

Both chilling and poignant, Travels in the Scriptorium is vintage Auster: mysterious texts, fluid identities, a hidden past, and, somewhere, an obscure tormentor. And yet, as we discover during one day in the life of Mr. Blank, his world is not so different from our own.

Editorial Reviews

Howard Norman
Auster is one of our most intellectually elegant writers. He has persistently subverted the ordinary mechanisms of suspense, chronology, even genre. In certain fundamental attributes, this new novel resembles his Oracle Night, published in 2003. Yet determined readers come to savor the inimitable way Auster keeps restructuring and vivifying his novelistic obsessions. Themes are hungry ghosts, Borges said. Fortunately, Auster's ghosts are insatiable.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

This enigmatic interrogation into the life of the sequestered and nameless protagonist referred to as Mr. Blank will leave some listeners perplexed and others awestruck by Auster's manipulative narrative devices. Trapped within a room, Mr. Blank tries to recall who he is as a host of people from his past visits him. As usual, Hill performs fantastically with much energy and emotion. His edgy gravelly voice is tempered with a range of intensity that will grip listeners. Yet this doesn't deter him from a softer tone when vocalizing women or revealing a more sentimental element of the story. The only problem with Hill's voice is that his pitch ranges drastically, even in the same sentence. The sound engineers need to pay close attention and level it out. Otherwise, listeners are left constantly turning up and down the sound. Simultaneous release with the Holt hardcover (Reviews, Oct. 16). (Mar.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal
An old man awakens in a room he doesn't recognize and begins reading a mysterious manuscript seemingly left there for him. Kafkaesque? No, Austeresque. With a national tour; reading group guide. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Rarely has a novelist pulled the strings of his puppetry more transparently, as ardent fans may find this meta-fictional fable profound, while others may dismiss it as a literary parlor trick. With a Kafkaesque protagonist in an M.C. Escher plot, Auster (The Brooklyn Follies, 2005, etc.) returns to the themes of identity, memory, illusion and creativity that have marked his work since his breakthrough New York Trilogy (The Locked Room, 1986, etc.). During that period, he was regarded as a sort of metaphysical mystery writer, a reputation he lives up to here. The protagonist is nameless except as "the old man," until author and reader make a compact to refer to him as "Mr. Blank," which immediately becomes the name by which other characters know him. Those characters then invoke the names of others recycled from Auster's fiction (Benjamin Sachs, David Zimmer, Fanshawe, Quinn), whom Mr. Blank is supposed to know but doesn't. Except for vague memories and dreams, he knows nothing. He has been committed to or incarcerated within a room that is the totality of his environment, or perhaps he is there by choice. Everything in the room carries a label ("lamp," "desk," etc.), for his command of the connection between language and reality (whatever that is) is tenuous. There are photographs on the desk that might well spark clues to his identity, and a manuscript that purports to be the memoir of a previous occupant of this very room. Visitors come and go: a doctor, a former inspector, a lawyer and others, some of whom may have had some connection with Mr. Blank, none of whom he remembers and most of whom he will forget as soon as they leave. Otherwise, nothing much happens, until the novelculminates in Mr. Blank's discovery of another manuscript with which the reader will be quite familiar. Though some will find that the illumination within the final three pages justifies the existential tedium preceding it, others will agree with Mr. Blank, who is "not the least bit amused" and wonders, "When is this nonsense going to end?"

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429904674
Publisher:
Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
Publication date:
01/23/2007
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
160
Sales rank:
784,303
File size:
219 KB

Read an Excerpt

Travels in the Scriptorium


By Paul Auster

Henry Holt and Company

Copyright © 2006 Paul Auster
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0467-4


CHAPTER 1

THE OLD MAN sits on the edge of the narrow bed, palms spread out on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. He has no idea that a camera is planted in the ceiling directly above him. The shutter clicks silently once every second, producing eighty-six thousand four hundred still photos with each revolution of the earth. Even if he knew he was being watched, it wouldn't make any difference. His mind is elsewhere, stranded among the figments in his head as he searches for an answer to the question that haunts him.

Who is he? What is he doing here? When did he arrive and how long will he remain? With any luck, time will tell us all. For the moment, our only task is to study the pictures as attentively as we can and refrain from drawing any premature conclusions.

There are a number of objects in the room, and on each one a strip of white tape has been affixed to the surface, bearing a single word written out in block letters. On the bedside table, for example, the word is TABLE. On the lamp, the word is LAMP. Even on the wall, which is not strictly speaking an object, there is a strip of tape that reads WALL. The old man looks up for a moment, sees the wall, sees the strip of tape attached to the wall, and pronounces the word wall in a soft voice. What cannot be known at this point is whether he is reading the word on the strip of tape or simply referring to the wall itself. It could be that he has forgotten how to read but still recognizes things for what they are and can call them by their names, or, conversely, that he has lost the ability to recognize things for what they are but still knows how to read.

He is dressed in blue-and-yellow striped cotton pajamas, and his feet are encased in a pair of black leather slippers. It is unclear to him exactly where he is. In the room, yes, but in what building is the room located? In a house? In a hospital? In a prison? He can't remember how long he has been here or the nature of the circumstances that precipitated his removal to this place. Perhaps he has always been here; perhaps this is where he has lived since the day he was born. What he knows is that his heart is filled with an implacable sense of guilt. At the same time, he can't escape the feeling that he is the victim of a terrible injustice.

There is one window in the room, but the shade is drawn, and as far as he can remember he has not yet looked out of it. Likewise with the door and its white porcelain knob. Is he locked in, or is he free to come and go as he wishes? He has yet to investigate this matter — for, as stated in the first paragraph above, his mind is elsewhere, adrift in the past as he wanders among the phantom beings that clutter his head, struggling to answer the question that haunts him.

The pictures do not lie, but neither do they tell the whole story. They are merely a record of time passing, the outward evidence. The old man's age, for example, is difficult to determine from the slightly out-of-focus black-and-white images. The only fact that can be set down with any certainty is that he is not young, but the word old is a flexible term and can be used to describe a person anywhere between sixty and a hundred. We will therefore drop the epithet old man and henceforth refer to the person in the room as Mr. Blank. For the time being, no first name will be necessary.

Mr. Blank stands up from the bed at last, pauses briefly to steady his balance, and then shuffles over to the desk at the other end of the room. He feels tired, as if he has just woken from a fitful, too short night of sleep, and as the soles of his slippers scrape along the bare wood floor, he is reminded of the sound of sandpaper. Far off in the distance, beyond the room, beyond the building in which the room is located, he hears the faint cry of a bird — perhaps a crow, perhaps a seagull, he can't tell which.

Mr. Blank lowers his body into the chair at the desk. It is an exceedingly comfortable chair, he decides, made of soft brown leather and equipped with broad armrests to accommodate his elbows and forearms, not to speak of an invisible spring mechanism that allows him to rock back and forth at will, which is precisely what he begins to do the moment he sits down. Rocking back and forth has a soothing effect on him, and as Mr. Blank continues to indulge in these pleasurable oscillations, he remembers the rocking horse that sat in his bedroom when he was a small boy, and then he begins to relive some of the imaginary journeys he used to take on that horse, whose name was Whitey and who, in the young Mr. Blank's mind, was not a wooden object adorned with white paint but a living being, a true horse.

After this brief excursion into his early boyhood, anguish rises up into Mr. Blank's throat again. He says out loud in a weary voice: I mustn't allow this to happen. Then he leans forward to examine the piles of papers and photo-graphs stacked neatly on the surface of the mahogany desk. He takes hold of the pictures first, three dozen eight-by-ten black-and-white portraits of men and women of various ages and races. The photo on top shows a young woman in her early twenties. Her dark hair is cropped short, and there is an intense, troubled look in her eyes as she gazes into the lens. She is standing outdoors in some city, perhaps an Italian or French city, because she happens to be positioned in front of a medieval church, and because the woman is wearing a scarf and a woolen coat, it is safe to assume the picture was taken in winter. Mr. Blank stares into the eyes of the young woman and strains to remember who she is. After twenty seconds or so, he hears himself whisper a single word: Anna. A feeling of overpowering love washes through him. He wonders if Anna isn't someone he was once married to, or if, perhaps, he isn't looking at a picture of his daughter. An instant after thinking these thoughts, he is attacked by a fresh wave of guilt, and he knows that Anna is dead. Even worse, he suspects that he is responsible for her death. It might even be, he tells himself, that he was the person who killed her.

Mr. Blank groans in pain. Looking at the pictures is too much for him, so he pushes them aside and turns his attention to the papers. There are four piles in all, each about six inches high. For no particular reason that he is aware of, he reaches for the top page on the pile farthest to the left. The handwritten words, printed out in block letters similar to the ones on the strips of white tape, read as follows:

Viewed from the outermost reaches of space, the earth is no larger than a speck of dust. Remember that the next time you write the word "humanity."

From the look of disgust that comes over his face as he scans these sentences, we can be fairly confident that Mr. Blank has not lost the ability to read. But who the author of these sentences might be is still open to question.

Mr. Blank reaches out for the next page on the pile and discovers that it is a typed manuscript of some sort. The first paragraph reads:

The moment I started to tell my story, they knocked me down and kicked me in the head. When I climbed to my feet and started to talk again, one of them hit me across the mouth, and then another one punched me in the stomach. I fell down. I managed to get up again, but just as I was about to begin the story for the third time, the Colonel threw me against the wall and I passed out.

There are two more paragraphs on the page, but before Mr. Blank can begin reading the second one, the telephone rings. It is a black rotary model from the late forties or early fifties of the past century, and since it is located on the bedside table, Mr. Blank is forced to stand up from the soft leather chair and shuffle over to the other side of the room. He picks up the receiver on the fourth ring.

Hello, says Mr. Blank.

Mr. Blank? asks the voice on the other end.

If you say so.

Are you sure? I can't take any chances.

I'm not sure of anything. If you want to call me Mr. Blank, I'm happy to answer to that name. Who am I talking to?

James.

I don't know any James.

James P. Flood.

Refresh my memory.

I came to visit you yesterday. We spent two hours together.

Ah. The policeman.

Ex-policeman.

Right. The ex-policeman. What can I do for you?

I want to see you again.

Wasn't one conversation enough?

Not really. I know I'm just a minor character in this business, but they said I was allowed to see you twice.

You're telling me I have no choice.

I'm afraid so. But we don't have to talk in the room if you don't want to. We can go out and sit in the park if you'd prefer that.

I don't have anything to wear. I'm standing here dressed in pajamas and slippers.

Look in the closet. You have all the clothes you need.

Ah. The closet. Thank you.

Have you had your breakfast, Mr. Blank?

I don't think so. Am I allowed to eat?

Three meals a day. It's still a bit early, but Anna should be coming around pretty soon.

Anna? Did you say Anna?

She's the person who takes care of you.

I thought she was dead.

Hardly.

Maybe it's a different Anna.

I doubt it. Of all the people involved in this story, she's the only one who's completely on your side.

And the others?

Let's just say there's a lot of resentment, and we'll leave it at that.

It should be noted that in addition to the camera a microphone is embedded in one of the walls, and every sound Mr. Blank makes is being reproduced and preserved by a highly sensitive digital tape recorder. The least groan or sniffle, the least cough or fleeting flatulence that emerges from his body is therefore an integral part of our account as well. It goes without saying that this aural data also includes the words that are variously mumbled, uttered, or shouted by Mr. Blank, as with, for example, the telephone call from James P. Flood recorded above. The conversation ends with Mr. Blank reluctantly giving in to the ex-policeman's demand to pay him a visit sometime that morning. After Mr. Blank hangs up the phone, he sits down on the edge of the narrow bed, assuming a position identical to the one described in the first sentence of this report: palms spread out on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. He ponders whether he should stand up and begin looking for the closet Flood referred to, and if that closet exists, whether he should change out of his pajamas and put on some clothes, assuming there are clothes in the closet — if indeed that closet exists. But Mr. Blank is in no rush to engage in such mundane chores. He wants to go back to the typescript he started reading before he was interrupted by the telephone. He therefore stands up from the bed and takes a first tentative step toward the other side of the room, feeling a sudden rush of dizziness as he does so. He realizes that he will fall down if he remains standing any longer, but rather than return to the bed and sit there until the crisis passes, he puts his right hand against the wall, leans the full brunt of his weight against it, and gradually lowers himself to the floor. Now on his knees, Mr. Blank pitches himself forward and plants his palms on the floor as well. Dizzy or not, such is his determination to reach the desk that he crawls there on all fours.

Once he manages to climb into the leather chair, he rocks back and forth for several moments to steady his nerves. In spite of his physical efforts, he understands that he is afraid to go on reading the typescript. Why this fear should have taken hold of him is something he cannot account for. It's only words, he tells himself, and since when have words had the power to frighten a man half to death? It won't do, he mutters in a low, barely audible voice. Then, to reassure himself, he repeats the same sentence, shouting at the top of his lungs: IT WON'T DO!

Inexplicably, this sudden burst of sound gives him the courage to continue. He takes a deep breath, fixes his eyes on the words in front of him, and reads the following two paragraphs:

They have kept me in this room ever since. From all I can gather, it is not a typical cell, and it does not seem to be part of the military stockade or the territorial house of detention. It is a small, bare enclosure, measuring roughly twelve feet by fifteen feet, and because of the simplicity of its design (dirt floor, thick stone walls), I suspect that it once served as a storehouse for food supplies, perhaps for sacks of flour and grain. There is a single barred window at the top of the western wall, but it is too far off the ground for me to get my hands on it. I sleep on a straw mat in one corner, and two meals are given to me every day: cold porridge in the morning, tepid soup and hard bread in the evening. According to my calculations, I have been here for forty-seven nights. This tally could be wrong, however. My first days in the cell were interrupted by numerous beatings, and because I can't remember how many times I lost consciousness — nor how long the oblivions lasted when I did — it is possible that I lost count somewhere and failed to notice when a particular sun might have risen or another might have set.

The desert begins just outside my window. Each time the wind blows from the west, I can smell the sage and juniper bushes, the minima of those dry distances. I lived out there on my own for close to four months, wandering freely from one place to another, sleeping outdoors in all kinds of weather, and to return from the openness of that country to the narrow confines of this room has not been easy for me. I can bear up to the enforced solitude, to the absence of conversation and human contact, but I long to be in the air and the light again, and I spend my days hungering for something to look at besides these jagged stone walls. Every now and then, soldiers walk below my window. I can hear their boots crunching on the ground, the irregular bursts of their voices, the clatter of carts and horses in the heat of the unattainable day. This is the garrison at Ultima: the westernmost tip of the Confederation, the place that stands at the edge of the known world. We are more than two thousand miles from the capital here, overlooking the unmapped expanses of the Alien Territories. The law says that no one is allowed to go out there. I went because I was ordered to go, and now I have returned to give my report. They will listen to me or they won't listen to me, and then I will be taken outside and shot. I am fairly certain of that now. The important thing is not to delude myself, to resist the temptation of hope. When they finally put me up against the wall and aim their rifles at my body, the only thing I will ask of them is to remove the blindfold. It's not that I have any interest in seeing the men who kill me, but I want to be able to look at the sky again. That is the extent of what I want now. To stand out in the open and look up at the immense blue sky above me, to gaze at the howling infinite one last time.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster. Copyright © 2006 Paul Auster. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Paul Auster is the bestselling author of twelve previous novels, including The Brooklyn Follies, Oracle Night, The Book of Illusions, and Timbuktu. His work has been translated into more than thirty languages. He lives in Brooklyn.


Paul Auster is the bestselling author of Winter Journal, Sunset Park, Invisible, The Book of Illusions, and The New York Trilogy, among many other works. He has been awarded the Prince of Asturias Prize for Literature, the Prix Médicis Étranger, the Independent Spirit Award, and the Premio Napoli. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and a Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
 
"Auster has an enormous talent for creating worlds that are both fantastic and believable. . . . His novels are uniformly difficult to put down, a testament to his storytelling gifts."—Timothy Peters, San Francisco Chronicle

Brief Biography

Hometown:
Brooklyn, New York
Date of Birth:
February 3, 1947
Place of Birth:
Newark, New Jersey
Education:
B.A., M.A., Columbia University, 1970

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Travels in the Scriptorium 3.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 14 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I love Paul Auster's books. They're always a surreal journey in everyday's life. His prose is always beautiful and 'Scriptorium' does not disappoint to that extent. The story unfolds and the reader is intrigued by what hides behind the story of the main character, Mr Blank. However, I was left hungry in the end and could have done with more. It felt like an unfinished experience. Great start but no end. I am one of these readers who need a good start and a good end to fully appreciate a book. Usually, Paul Auster provides both + fantastic style of story-telling. However, this one falls short ultimately and disappoints. My expectation may have been high. It was an interesting experience but that's it.
harstan More than 1 year ago
The old man awakens feeling disoriented as he has no idea who he is, where he is, how he got there wherever that is, why he is imprisoned in this room, or for that matter anything else except that he is locked inside this room. He is unaware of the camera in the ceiling that takes constant pictures of him at a phenomenal rate of one per second. --- Seeking any clue to his identity, he sits by the desk studying photos that mean nothing to him and reads a manuscript that he fails to relate to either. The outside ¿watcher¿ dubs him ¿Mr. Blank¿ as the old man reads the odd account of Sigmund Graf of the Confederation assigned to find a rebel soldier Ernesto Land. Throughout the day as he struggles with his memory, visitors arrive confusing him further as he vaguely recognizes the policeman, the doctor, and the attendants who subtly accuse him of horrific crimes against humanity. However, it is his lawyer who lets Mr. Blank know how much trouble he in. The man is accused of conspiracy, fraud, negligent homicide, defamation of character, and first-degree murder, but except for flashpoints he recalls nothing and once they leave he reverts back to Mr. Blank. --- This is a strange tale mindful of the 1960s TV show the Prisoner, as Mr. Blank, sitting in the austere room (and readers) wonders what is going on and when will it end not how will it terminate. The existential story line is not for everyone as the action is limited to the manuscript and even that in many ways is passive. Instead the plot focuses on what is existence when the essential soul of experience is deleted either from one of his tormentors (the watcher-narrator) or from within his own mind as a psychological device to cope with horrific crimes. --- Harriet Klausner
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a book that I enjoyed, I not sure exactly what it was about. It seems to be a form of prison for Mr. Blank who does not know who or why he is there and slowly he starts to remember by hints in his room and people from his past that help him remember his crimes.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
This is my third Paul Auster novel after Book of Illusions and Oracle Night. I have enjoyed them all immensely. Scriptorium is a thought-provoking novel that leaves the reader with as many questions as it does answers. Auster is adept at playing with the perception of reality with his characters and always finds a way at unraveling the plot in unexpected and satisfying ways. While progressing through the narrative, the reader must question the reality presented and must suspend interpretative judgment until the end is reached. Much like watching a thriller unfold on a screen, you won't want to come to a conclusion until the credits roll. Auster takes his protagonists through tragi-comic, metaphysical journeys often touching on themes of guilt and restitution. Not recommended for readers who prefer novels in which all plot elements are sown together in a neat package ending leaving little room for doubt. Nevertheless, as Auster breaks down the typical barriers of story telling, you know the journey will be thought provoking. Read this novel with a partner as it will provide a lively discussion.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was a chore to finish. I can't believe this book was really published. VERY QUICK READ like getting a tooth pulled. NOT RECOMmENDED!