In The Astronomer, Brian Biswas weaves a captivating blend of magical realism and existential inquiry across a tapestry of short stories. The novel opens with a prologue that sets the stage for the unfolding narrative, introducing Martin Pasqual, a professor at the University of Illinois. During a meeting of the Peoria Astronomical Society, Pasqual encounters the enigmatic Franz Herbert, an older professor whose almost mystical aura intrigues him. As their interactions continue, Pasqual’s curiosity grows, and he becomes increasingly drawn to Herbert’s otherworldly presence.

While the prologue merely hints at the mysteries to come, the story takes a dramatic turn when Pasqual discovers Herbert’s diary entries. This discovery divides the structure of the novel, as the narrative unravels through the lens of these entries. The novel blends surrealism and invites readers to piece together the story themselves, offering a unique and immersive experience. The Astronomer’s fusion of mystery, introspection, and the unexplained creates an intriguing and thought-provoking work. —Paige Martins

The Astronomer by Brian Biswas (Excerpts)

On the elderly man who frequented the Peoria Astronomical Society and what became of him.

I first saw Franz Herbert at a meeting of the Peoria Astronomical Society in April of 1962. I was teaching comparative literature at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and had traveled to Peoria to attend the monthly meetings of the society, astronomy being a keen interest of mine.

The society met in the meeting room of an old church on Perry Avenue. Herbert always sat in the same place, on a wooden chair in the back near a corner window. He was a middle-aged man, probably in his mid-fifties, with thinning brown hair, blue eyes, a face that was both pitted and lined. He had a sorrowful expression, as if he had suffered much in life.

It was during one such meeting, near the end of a lecture on Saturn’s moon Titan, when there was a loud commotion from the street outside. I jumped up, rushed to the window, and looked out. There had been an ugly car crash, directly across from the church: a red Mercedes and a white Buick station wagon had collided head-on. A police car was already at the scene and in the distance I heard the wail of an ambulance. I found myself standing next to Herbert, who had not risen from his seat. After expressing my concern about the condition of the drivers, I made some banal comment about people not paying attention and he nodded.

From that point on, Herbert never failed to smile when he saw me arrive. One time—I think it was in August—he approached after the meeting, drink in hand. He told me that he had once taught astronomy at a university on the east coast but was retired. His nights were spent observing under Illinois’ starry sky. As for his days . . . His words trailed off. Herbert’s voice was deep and resonant; it must have been quite a treat to listen to his lectures on the heavens.

I told him I myself was a college professor. And then I inquired about his daytime occupation.

“Writing my memoirs,” he said with a wry smile. “The story of a sordid life.”

I chuckled. I said I, too, was a writer, and asked if he hoped to publish his work. He replied that one day he just might.

I missed the next several meetings—I was writing a biography of James Joyce for which my publisher was getting impatient—and when I returned to Peoria in December, I saw no sign of Herbert. My inquiries met with shrugs. That should have been that, I suppose, but I could not stop thinking about the man, his odd way of speaking, his airy, wistful expression, the air of otherworldliness that seemed to hang about him.

As luck would have it, I came upon him a month later, in a bar on the west side of Peoria. He was sitting in a dimly-lit corner, observing customers as they came and went. Occasionally he would write something on a napkin (there was a stack on the table), then fold it in two and place it in his breast pocket.

I approached and asked if I could join him. He smiled and pulled out a chair.

When I mentioned my concern at his disappearance, he broke into a hearty laugh. “Just needed to take a break,” he said. Then he began talking about the stars and the “gods and goddesses who rule over all.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Before another word was said, the door creaked open and a young couple entered. Herbert looked across the room and I saw that his eyes were shimmering like starlight.

“The world thinks I’m crazy, I know,” he said, turning back to face me. “A demented, though harmless, man. And all because I can go where they cannot!”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and had a feeling I was treading into territory best left unexplored, but I asked anyway, “What do you mean?”

Herbert looked befuddled, as if he wasn’t sure how much to confide. Then he said, “The world is composed of momentary, unconnected fragments. I, being of the world, am likewise composed. Consider a mirror. A mirror which reflects in its image the portrait of a man. One day the mirror explodes and hundreds of fragments are scattered about. They are carefully reassembled until the mirror once again shows the man’s image. But there are many ways to piece a mirror back together. Which one of them is true? And does the question itself even have meaning?”

His thoughts were fodder for philosophical speculation, I supposed, but I had no idea what to make of them. I wondered, though, if perhaps the man had suffered a tragedy in the past—his world exploding—one from which he never fully recovered.

I had to excuse myself at this point for the hour was late and I needed to return to Urbana without further delay. I had an 8 A.M. lecture the next day and had yet to prepare my notes. I fully intended to continue my conversations with Herbert, but I never saw or heard from him again.

Several years later I received a call from a Dr. Arnold, who said he was Herbert’s psychiatrist. He wondered if I might be interested in perusing Herbert’s manuscript, entitled The Astronomer, which had been found on his bedside table. Herbert himself had vanished, leaving only these traces behind, along with a request that in the event of his disappearance they be delivered to me. I responded affirmatively, telling him I had been intrigued by the man’s enigmatic nature.

The work consists of sixteen diary entries—the diaries themselves have never been found—reflections by Herbert on life and his place in the world, along with chapters from an apparent memoir. Herbert did not number the chapters. He did, however, have the odd habit of repeating the final words of one chapter at the beginning of the next. This may have been the order intended. In any event, it is the order I followed. I interspersed the diary entries between chapters as seemed appropriate and added this preface which strikes me as superfluous but which I will let stand for historical reasons. Also included is an account of Herbert’s life as told by his psychiatrist Dr. Joseph Arnold.

This, then, is Herbert’s story.

Professor Martin Pasqual

About the Author
Brian Biswas, author of Blister (2023) and A Betrayal (2018), is a writer from Columbus, Ohio. He holds a B.A. in Philosophy from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, and an M.S. in Computer Science from the University of Illinois. Biswas’s writing often explores magical realism, with occasional forays into neo-gothic and science fiction. The inspiration for The Astronomer stemmed from his own experiences with epileptic seizures at the age of fourteen, an affliction that Franz, the older character in the novel, also grapples with. Biswas uses these personal experiences to deepen his understanding of his characters’ perspectives and to pose profound questions to both himself and his audience. His eccentric and distinctive style makes The Astronomer a remarkable read.