M Train: A Memoir

by Patti Smith

I slipped into the role of compliant female, for in this obscure annex of the Foreign Legion it was definitely a man’s world.

Man gives us war. A mother profits from it and pays with her children; they fall one by one like wooden pins at the end of a bowling alley.

—If you don’t have one, then everyone is your valentine.

It bothered me deeply. I had taken a beautiful object, formed by nature, out of its habitat to be thrown into a sack of security rubble.

She is still alive, Dice translated. Ninety-two years old. —May she live to be one hundred, I said. Faithful to herself.

I salute you, Akutagawa, I salute you, Dazai, I said, draining my cup. —Don’t waste your time on us, they seemed to say, we are only bums. I refilled the small cup and drank. —All writers are bums, I murmured. May I be counted among you one day.