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Amid the old-timers and stale knishes of Shalom Chai deli, Nicole Krauss makes an aloof, if amused, onlooker. We’ve come to Grand Street in honor of Leo Gursky, the lonely octogenarian who anchors her intricate second novel, The History of Love. Krauss, in flared jeans and Saucony sneakers, is not just too young and modern for this crowd but too soft-spoken as well. Her voice is barely audible as a hoary man in a yarmulke shouts, “Come on, when was the last time you saw a drunken Lubavitcher?”
Krauss got glowing reviews for her first novel, Man Walks Into a Room, followed quickly by a six-figure, two-book deal. So I ask her how she feels about writers’ succeeding wildly the minute they’re out of the gate.“In general?” she asks. “I don’t know what it’s like for other writers.”What about her husband, great-young-thing Jonathan Safran Foer? “That subject I’m not talking about,” she says firmly. “Not much to say on that front.”She will, in fact, not utter his name within sight of a tape recorder. Can you blame her? She’s living beside a lightning rod, whose alternately hyped-and-reviled second novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, has attracted much Schadenfreude. Put together, the power couple is easy to resent. She’s 30, he’s 28. Their debuts were nestled side-by-side on year-end best-of lists in 2002; this year they could well be again. Then there is the multi-million-dollar brownstone on three lots that they just bought near Prospect Park (its ornate bathroom is featured on the snark blog Gawker). And there are the striking similarities between their two second novels, which few reviewers have failed to note. Mediabistro declared them “obviously collaborative.” (“Is it a cute postmodern joke?” the piece went on. “God knows Foer is fond of those.”)
Add to that Krauss’s own privileges: the isolated splendor of her Bauhaus childhood home on a Long Island hilltop; a precocious and suspended career as a poet; degrees from Stanford and Oxford; a stint corralling literati for a hip reading series at the Russian Samovar that must have yielded lots of writerly connections.
But what of it? Authors through the ages have been well-off and well connected. More to the point, The History of Love is a significant novel, genuinely one of the year’s best. Old Leo (a new entry in the Jewish-lit canon) nurses the loss of his true love, as well as his only son—a famous writer—and his own great manuscript. Krauss’s novel is emotionally wrenching yet intellectually rigorous, idea-driven but with indelible characters and true suspense. It draws a career arc that may very soon surpass her husband’s, in book clubs (it’s a Today show pick) as well as Hollywood. (Foer’s Everything Is Illuminated comes out this fall, and Mexican director Alfonso Cuarón—of Y Tu Mamá También—is already laboring on The History of Love.)
The literary couple is a familiar phenomenon, and one notoriously unfair to the female member. Who is more famous, Paul Auster or his talented wife, Siri Hustvedt? Marianne Wiggins could be a great novelist, but will she ever field an interview that doesn’t probe her time in hiding with Salman Rushdie? Those who open up about it seem only to suffer more. When Ayelet Waldman recently confessed her undying lust for husband Michael Chabon, she became no less vulnerable than Kathryn Chetkovich—who wrote an essay, “Envy,” on her burning jealousy of her boyfriend, Jonathan Franzen. Aiming at liberation, both inevitably became so-and-so’s partner. That’s a dilemma Nicole Krauss is looking to avoid, and on the strength of her work she stands a better chance than most.

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