There are territories that, when you travel, seem to have come from fiction, created by a writer. This happens when you step on this ground and look around after reading the work. Park Slope, Brooklyn, with its lined stone houses, the trees on the sidewalks, the occasional cat in the window, the dogs running in the garden nearby, the stores on the corner that sell almost everything, like cigarettes at midnight , and the tulips in every flowerbed when Spring is almost here. What could happen in that strange stillness? Didn’t Paul Auster create this?
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