Just Kids by Patti Smith

I should be getting ready for bed, but I keep thinking about how I just finished a new all-time favorite read. Just Kids by Patti Smith. The lyrics from Taylor Swift’s new song have been on a loop in my head, “You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith/ This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots.” I finished the book yesterday and cried tears for an ending I knew was coming. After all, his death is the premise of the book. I cried while I read her incredible string of words. I cried in the shower thinking about their relationship. One beyond definition. I cried after the shower. And then I climbed into my roommate's bed and we watched Fifty Shades Freed together. By the end of the night I was laughing again.

Smith’s prose is something I have dreamed about and yearned for. She is raw in her storytelling. She has created a whole new alphabet with the way she writes. Just Kids is a genuine piece of art that came to me at the perfect time. I was in desperate need of a book that would rock my foundation, change me even. I wanted something good. I wanted something to rattle me. This book did it. I fear I will be in search of another like this for a long time. Hopefully not. But even so, that’s okay. I have amassed a solid stack of books that are favorites of mine. I only hope it grows.

I won’t sit here and try to put Patti and Robert’s relationship into words. That’s what the book is for! All I can do is sing its praise. I’m not the first person to and I won’t be the last. I’m just a number, a singular reader who has changed from this interaction with this particular text. Smith is just so cool and inspirational. Her words are unprecedented and profound. This book is beautiful and rare and blue. And it won the National Book Award, so if you don’t believe me, you can recognize the National Book Foundation’s merit in picking a good book.