M Train: A Memoir

by Patti Smith

As we happily made our way back to his car he produced the tokkuri and cup from his worn leather sack. —Friendship makes thieves of us all,

Anxious for some permanency, I guess I needed to be reminded how temporal permanency is.

Instead I wrote down a few titles on a napkin—Suspended Sentences, Wittgenstein’s Poker, Shantytown, Heart of a Dog—and handed it to him. Afterwards it occurred to me that I hadn’t written down the book that was open before me, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories Stories by Akutagawa, nor the one in my pocket, The Lover by Marguerite Duras. Some weirdness on my part. A childish possessiveness—I had staked them as my territory, their atmosphere particular and concurrent to my own.

But surprisingly I was given the part of Dr. Ann Morrison, neurosurgeon. Ten lines and a lab coat. It was all about the brain.