For me, a paragraph in a novel is a bit like a line in a poem.

Hear the words of Paul Auster, who likened the craft of writing to the song of poetry: “For me, a paragraph in a novel is a bit like a line in a poem. It has its own shape, its own music, its own integrity.” This utterance is no idle remark, but a revelation of the secret life of words. For Auster reminds us that writing is not merely the assembling of sentences into chapters, but the weaving of rhythm, form, and harmony into every fragment. Each paragraph, though small, carries its own breath, its own pulse, as though it were a poem standing alone, even as it belongs to the greater whole.

The ancients knew this truth long before. The Greeks, in their tragedies, shaped every chorus and verse with precision, for they believed that each part must mirror the beauty of the whole. A single cracked note would disturb the harmony of the play, just as a broken stone mars the temple. So too in writing: a paragraph poorly shaped weakens the novel, while one crafted with care becomes a jewel, radiant even if read apart from its larger body. Auster teaches us that beauty dwells not only in the grand design, but in the smallest units of creation.

Consider the works of Hemingway, whose paragraphs often stand like strokes of a brush—brief, stark, and resonant. Each one carries a weight, a cadence, a silence that speaks as loudly as the words. They are lines of poetry hidden in prose, fragments that can be read and felt without the larger story. His art, like Auster’s vision, shows that the strength of a book is built on the strength of its pieces, just as the sea is formed of countless drops, each reflecting the light.

But let us not mistake simplicity for ease. To shape a paragraph with music and integrity is labor as demanding as the sculptor’s chisel or the composer’s score. The writer must feel the rhythm of the words, their rise and fall, the pauses that give them breath. Auster’s wisdom teaches us that prose is not merely a vehicle for meaning, but an art of sound and form. To ignore this is to write lifelessly; to honor it is to let one’s work sing.

The lesson here is greater than writing alone. It is a call to honor the integrity of the small in all things. Just as a paragraph has its own truth, so too does a single action in life. One day lived well, one deed done with care, one conversation spoken with honesty—these are the paragraphs of our existence. If each is given shape and music, then the whole novel of our lives will be beautiful.

Practical wisdom follows: when you write, do not rush to finish the chapter, but pause to listen to the cadence of each paragraph. Read it aloud, and hear whether it carries harmony or discord. When you live, do not seek greatness only in the far-off future, but in the integrity of each day, each step. For life, like writing, is not a single monument raised at once, but the steady placing of stones, each one shaped with care.

So let these words of Paul Auster endure: “A paragraph in a novel is like a line in a poem.” They remind us that art dwells in the details, and that beauty lies in giving every part its due honor. Let us write, let us live, as craftsmen of both the small and the great, so that when the whole is seen, it will shine as a masterpiece—each part singing its own song, yet united in harmony eternal.