Patti Smith

已成經典的Horses專輯封面(1975)

知道Patti Smith是因為香港黑鳥樂團的專輯 (翻唱Patti的People Have the Power 和 Because of the Night)，再來是看了一些有關她的紀錄片、訪談而漸漸認識她，也漸漸喜歡上她。在低潮的時候(特別是在留學這段時間)，YouTube 上有關Patti的演出、談話每每是最好的精神良藥。音樂舞台上Patti不視自己為musician而是performer或artist，她說punk教母的頭銜是"media stuff"。其實這些一點都不重要，重要的是我喜歡Patti與人談話時的親切與風趣，她樂於用最簡單直接的語言與人交談並使人如沐春風；她是詩人憂鬱，但她聆聽，她懂得欣賞、讚美他人的才華並且珍視著它，她用最大的努力活在當下而不掩飾對逝去的摯愛的思念；面對權力她直言不諱，卻無傷她赤誠的笑容一片，與生俱來般用溫柔看待生命中發生的一切。

Patti的書在幾年前在台出版，當時在誠品看到沒買，也不想從網路訂購，覺得這些都不是與Patti相遇的方式。最近因為真想讀她的書，所以每經過一家(獨立)書店，都進去找找、碰碰運氣，直到昨天在Utrecht路過Boekhandel Bijleveld這家老店，正巧店家開門，竟讓我在一座矮櫃最下層看見一本躺著的M Train，上排還有一本Just Kids。 


能夠在這家有153年歷史的老書店捧住Patti的書是一個美好的結局。沒有偏愛散文，但是一部好的散文作品，就像一位與你交心的知己，他所細述的，能夠陪伴你長長久久，讓人不經意想起，三毛如是，相信Patti Smith 亦如是。





[...] It all began with a dream, one I have already recounted. A cowpoke throws out a line, a turn of a lariat. It's not so easy writing about nothing, he said, and it set me off. It was my kind of challenge and so I started writing. Dreams beget wishes that beget lingering questions: How does one make one's work a living thing? How can a writer place a living thing in the hands of the reader? Lost for words I travel backwards. Perhaps it's not where we are going but just that we go. Once I went from London to Leeds to Heptonstall to visit Sylvia Plath's grave. I walked through the pine needles, then snow, and returned in spring. I visited her more than I had the grave of my own mother. But I don't feel my mother there; she is with me where I am; in my daughter's smile, in the whispers that soothe me when I'm off track.

Patti書中不斷提示，本書的寫作關於一場'nothing'

By the time you read this, more time will have passed. A new moon. Another full moon. Passover. Easter, which I will spend with my children and grandson, sleep in the room they have prepared for me, sit on the detective's chair my daughter-in-law found for me, and write at the desk my son chose for me. I will think of Fred, who made all this possible when he asked me to give him a son and then a daughter, never realizing he would not be physically present to watch them grow, nor to greet his grandson who was born on his passing day and shares his droopy pale-blue eyes.    
    Easter prayers will be uttered, eggs discovered, the boy on my son's knee will watch Thomas the Train. It will be raining. I will most likely rise, make some coffee, and quietly slip away. Climb the stairs, close the door as the comforting sense of their camaraderie softly recedes, then sit on the detective chair, open my notebook, and begin to write something new. 
 

 Patti Smith, M Train