“I look down at my hands. I’m sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.”
“Such a sad portion of injustice served to beautiful Bolanõ, to die at the height of his powers at fifty years old. The loss of him and his unwritten denying us at least one secret of the world.”
“I count the lines of the envisioned one-hundred-line poem, now three lines shy. Ninety-seven clues but nothing solved, another cold-case poem.”
“It occurred to me, as the heavy curtains were opened and the morning light flooded the small dining area, that without a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams into reality.”
“I suppose I was busy thinking about such things or attempting to untangle the mystery of an expanding network of seemingly unanswerable questions.”
“The compass was old and rusted but it still worked, connecting the earth and stars. It told me where I was standing and which way was west but not where I was going or nothing of my worth.”
“Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory.”
There is truly something magical about Patti Smith’s writing. It feels like we are in an alternative reality where time moves in a different way – it follows you instead of having you run after it. It’s quite extraordinary.