James Baldwin, 1956
“Look”, said Giovanni, as we crossed the river. “This old whore, Paris, as she turns in bed, is very moving.”
“I ached abruptly, intolerably, with a longing to go home, not to that hotel, in one of the alleys of Paris, where the concierge barred the way with my unpaid bill; but home, home across the ocean, to things and people I knew and understood; to those things, those places, those people which I would always, helplessly, and in whatever bitterness of spirit, love above all else. I had never realized such a sentiment in myself before, and it frightened me. I saw myself, sharply, as a wanderer, an adventurer, rocking through the world, unanchored.”
“You must pray”, she says, very soberly. “I assure you. Even just a little prayer, from time to time. Light a little candle. If it were not for the prayers of the blessed saints, one could not live in this world at all.
She walks a little away from me, and turns. “Souvenez-vous,” she tells me. “One must make a little prayer from time to time.”
the Books that Bind 