by Patti Smith
I turned each page carefully, marveling at the aesthetic beauty of each leaf. The first hundred watermarked sheets had Albert Camus engraved on the left-hand side; the remaining were not personalized, as though he had wearied of seeing his own name. Several pages were augmented with his confident marking, lines carefully revised and sections firmly crossed out. One could feel a sense of a focused mission and the racing heart propelling the last words of the final paragraph, the last he was to write.
I was indebted to Catherine for allowing me to examine her father’s manuscript, primed to embrace this precious time, wanting for nothing. But slowly I discerned a familiar shift in my concentration. That compulsion that prohibits me from completely surrendering to a work of art, drawing me from the halls of a favored museum to my own drafting table. Pressing me to close Songs of Innocence in order to experience, as Blake, a glimpse of the divine that may also become a poem.
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.
The author wishes to express gratitude to
The Albert Camus family
John Donatich
Dan Heaton Christina Coffin
Alexandre Alajbegovic Claude Lalanne
Fred Kameny Laitsz Ho Ariel Garcia
Rosemary Carroll
Andi Ostrowe 12 Chairs Cafe Lenny Kaye
Photographs: Patti Smith,
Steven Sebring (page 4), Linda Bianucci (page 21)