Devotion

by Patti Smith

In the morning I awake with the black-and-white dioramas of Risttuules still in my mind, the strained tempo of the human opera embodied in bowed and breathing statues. So taken by its expressive power I cannot recall the objective of my original search.

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.