I guess I wanted to leave America for awhile. It wasn't that I

Hear, O seekers of distance and clarity, the words of Paul Auster: “I guess I wanted to leave America for awhile. It wasn’t that I wanted to become an expatriate, or just never come back, I needed some breathing room. I’d already been translating French poetry, I’d been to Paris once before and liked it very much, and so I just went.” In this confession there lies the timeless yearning of the spirit to step away, to leave the familiar, not in rejection but in pursuit of renewal. Auster speaks of the necessity of distance: to leave one’s homeland not out of contempt, but in order to see it, and oneself, more clearly.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the ancient pattern of pilgrimage. From time immemorial, men and women have left their homes not because they despised them, but because they knew that the spirit needs distance to grow. The prophets went into deserts, the poets into foreign cities, the philosophers into exile. In their leaving, they discovered themselves anew. Auster’s journey to Paris is part of this lineage: not the renunciation of America, but the seeking of a wider horizon, a silence in which his own voice could ripen.

Consider the story of James Baldwin, who too left America for France. He did not abandon his country, but he sought freedom from its suffocating prejudices, space to write without the daily wound of racism pressing against him. In Paris, he found breath, community, and clarity, and from there he wrote words that would echo back across the ocean, shaping the conscience of America itself. So too Auster, in translating French poetry and living in another land, gained a vantage point that deepened his art. Leaving did not mean betrayal; it meant preparation.

There is also power in the act of translation. Auster, steeped in French poetry, was already learning to see through another culture’s eyes, to hear rhythm in another tongue. Translation is itself a form of exile and return: to leave one’s own language, to inhabit another, and then to bring something back transformed. In his leaving for Paris, Auster was continuing this same movement—stepping out of his home in order to see what might be carried back. Breathing room was not escape, but expansion.

This longing for space is a condition of the artist. To create, one must sometimes step outside of noise, away from expectations, beyond the familiar roads. The soul suffocates when it is too tightly bound. Thus Auster reminds us that to leave is not always to forsake; it is sometimes the truest act of fidelity, for only in leaving can one return with deeper love and sharper vision. His journey is the embodiment of this paradox: by stepping away from America, he found a way to speak more fully into it.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not fear the need for distance. If your heart longs for space, if your spirit cries for air, listen to it. Travel if you can, to another city, another country, or even into the solitude of the wilderness. Read other tongues, inhabit other traditions, breathe air that is not your own. For it is in the stepping away that you may find the strength to return. To deny this need is to risk suffocation; to honor it is to grow.

In practice, let each seeker act thus: when life feels crowded, when your own culture feels too heavy, give yourself breathing room. Study the voices of another land. Learn the poetry of another language. Walk roads where you are a stranger. And when you return, bring with you the gifts of vision, humility, and new perspective. In this way, your art, your voice, your life will be richer than if you had never left.

Thus Auster’s teaching endures: departure is not abandonment, but expansion. The poet, the thinker, the seeker must sometimes step beyond their own land to breathe, to see, to grow. And when they return, they bring not only themselves renewed, but treasures that enrich their homeland. So do not fear to leave, for in leaving you may discover your only true way of return.