I tried to imagine the scene, to work my way back into the moment when the point of the pencil had first touched the paper. A mother is sitting next to her child as he takes his afternoon nap. She is reading a book, but when she glances up and sees him in that unguarded pose — head flung back and lolling to one side — she digs a pencil out of her pocket and begins to draw him. Since she has no paper, she uses the last page of the book, which happens to be blank. When the drawing is finished, she tears the page out of the book and puts it away — or else she leaves it there and forgets all about it. And if she forgets, years will go by before she opens the book again and rediscovers the lost drawing. Only then will she clip the brittle sheet from the binding, frame it, and hang it on the wall.
The above scene reminds me of a quote from, I think, John Le Carre that goes something like: “A good writer is someone who can watch a cat walk across the street and know what it’s like to be pounced upon by a Bengalese tiger.”
Conclusion: Paul Auster – Part 2.