That is the decisive power of a singular work: a call to action. And I, time and again, am overcome with the hubris to believe I can answer that call.
The words before me were elegant, blistering. My hands vibrated. Infused with confidence, I had the urge to bolt, mount the stairs, close the heavy door that had been his, sit before my own stack of foolscap, and begin at my own beginning. An act of guiltless sacrilege.
I rested my fingertips on the edge of the last page. Catherine and I looked at one another, not saying a word. I handed her the manuscript, harboring a regret reserved for the end of an affair. I rose from the table, the unfinished violet tea gone cold, the immortelle left behind.
Wandering into the small town, I picture Camus rising from his desk, reluctantly setting his work aside. Observed by the ghost of a girl, he descends the stair, follows this same route, past the clock tower with the Latin inscription: The hours that pass devour us. He walks these same narrow cobblestone streets, taking his usual seat at Café de l’Ormeau. He lights a cigarette and has a coffee, surrendering to the village hum. In the distance lavender hills, almond trees, blue Algerian sky. Inevitably his mind will turn from the spur of amiable conversation back to his sanctuary, to a certain phrase that has yet to be resolved.
Things are slow moving. There is a pencil stub in my pocket.
What is the task? To compose a work that communicates on several levels, as in a parable, devoid of the stain of cleverness.
What is the dream? To write something fine, that would be better than I am, and that would justify my trials and indiscretions. To offer proof, through a scramble of words, that God exists.
Why do I write? My finger, as a stylus, traces the question in the blank air. A familiar riddle posed since youth, withdrawing from play, comrades and the valley of love, girded with words, a beat outside.
Why do we write? A chorus erupts.
Because we cannot simply live.
Patti Smith – Devotion
via Kateri Ewing
