just kids, patti smith.

the love story of patti smith and robert mapplethorpe’s friendship completely gutted me. i finished just kids in three sittings and had to take crying breaks throughout the last fifteen pages or so to ensure that the deluge coming from my eyeballs wouldn’t force me to miss one scrap of detail. i’ve never been comfortable with the notion of soulmates, but even the most hardhearted cynic would waver after reading their story.

just kids isn’t just a biography of two aspiring artists who eventually make their way in new york, it’s also a love letter to new york in the gritty 1970’s. you are dropped right into the world of the hotel chelsea with cameos from jim morrison, janis joplin, jimi hendrix, andy warhol—to name a few—all struggling with drugs, failure, success, and establishing their identity in new york.

this was the 49th book i read this year and without a doubt has been my favorite, the one that moved me the most. it made me nostalgic for a new york city i have never experienced.