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). Their debuts were nestled side-by-side on year-end best-of lists in 2002 this year they could well be again. Put together, the power couple is easy to resent. 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. She will, in fact, not utter his name within sight of a tape recorder. What about her husband, great-young-thing Jonathan Safran Foer? “That subject I’m not talking about,” she says firmly. “I don’t know what it’s like for other writers.” So I ask her how she feels about writers’ succeeding wildly the minute they’re out of the gate. Krauss got glowing reviews for her first novel, Man Walks Into a Room, followed quickly by a six-figure, two-book deal. 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, in flared jeans and Saucony sneakers, is not just too young and modern for this crowd but too soft-spoken as well. We’ve come to Grand Street in honor of Leo Gursky, the lonely octogenarian who anchors her intricate second novel, The History of Love. Amid the old-timers and stale knishes of Shalom Chai deli, Nicole Krauss makes an aloof, if amused, onlooker.
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