Just Kids, by Patti Smith

Some memoirs feel mundane or self-indulgent. This is neither. Her voice is unique, her experiences fascinating. But mostly I can really tell that this was done out of love, out of promise to her great friend who died three decades ago. True humility.

Time moves a little unevenly. The early chapters cover time almost on the week-by-week level, and in the second half of the book time passes faster. Maybe that’s based on when she had the most day-to-day interaction with her dear friend.

I came away thinking about youth, and death, and art. Her voice is just so lovely. It’s so intimate. I can only imagine how painful it must have been to write.

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