The front of the building overlooks one of the broadest and busiest of the avenues in Queens, but his room is in the back, with two chairs, a bed that is really a cot and is covered with a red blanket. There is a dresser and an old television set. He had been living in a three-room apartment in Chelsea, in Manhattan, until a few weeks ago. When he had too much trouble walking to live alone, he left his apartment, furniture, old family photos, papers, everything, and checked into this exceedingly gloomy room in an old people's home in Queens. At 88, Felipe Alfau says he only wants to die.
Life is an inconvenience.
The other day, two people who had flown in from Chicago banged on the green tin door to Mr. Alfau's room until he did something he does not like to do, which is to answer it. The men, Steve Moore and John O'Brien, told him that a novel he had written in 1948, which had been turned down everywhere for more that 40 years, and which, only by accident they had found and published earlier this year, had just been nominated for the highly important National Book Award. It is one of only five novels under consideration. The other man was visibly concerned that Mr. Alfau would die of shock. Now go away and leave me alone.