Three months pass before the narrator hears from Austerlitz again. Austerlitz sends an invitation to his house on Alderney Street in London on a postcard from the 1920s or ‘30s, depicting a large camp of white tents from a forgotten military campaign in front of the Pyramids of Giza (pictured).

Austerlitz’s house is sparsely furnished and done in shades of gray. Dozens of photographs lie on the dining room table; Austerlitz says sometimes he arranges the photos upside down before turning them over one by one, becoming increasingly surprised by what he sees.

Austerlitz studied architectural history in Paris before moving to Alderney Street and taught for 30 years before retiring in 1991. The narrative turns to that year:

Austerlitz retired so he could finally synthesize his lifelong investigations of history and architecture into a book, but after reviewing his papers from his lifelong study, he becomes disillusioned with the words he wrote and with language in general. He sees words as lies concealing reality. He buries all of his papers in his compost heap, which gives him some relief, but he soon again feels an acute sense of isolation. He reflects he was one of the authors of this isolation: “all my life had been a constant process of obliteration, a turning away from myself and the world” (139).