About a year ago I watched an old documentary on PBS about Patti Smith. I'm not sure what the film was called, although it could have been "Still Moving," the experimental short film directed by her friend and onetime lover Robert Mapplethorpe. In any case, I found the film a little disturbing and Smith herself very difficult to relate to. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was just my mood.
When I was at the airport last week I picked up Smith's recent book, "Just Kids," a short memoir about her relationship with Mapplethorpe and her own coming of age. I had heard wonderful things about the book and I am trying to read more memoirs, so it seemed like a fitting thing to do. For the course of my day spent in airports on aboard planes, I simply could not put the slim volume down. I gorged myself on it. By the time that I got home I had to convince myself to read the rest of the book slowly, savoring each paragraph and not rushing through. I finally finished "Just Kids" last night, having to take deep breaths and not choke on my own tears as I lay in bed. It was that beautiful.
What surprised me the most about this book was how normal Patti Smith comes across in it. I knew that the writing would be good and that the story would be compelling, but I did not expect Smith herself to be so easy to access. Her reflections on growing up, falling in love, becoming an adult, and grieving, could have been pulled from any woman's heart. Part love letter, part elegy, this short book says everything about what it is like to build a life, to work hard, and to love tenderly without regret.
I recommend that you read the most recent paperback printing, because it includes a beautiful and surprising little postscript at the end, which I do not think is included in other editions.
