Who’s not intrigued by Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe? Their struggles in New York during the late sixties and early seventies, as portrayed in Just Kids, bring to life a critical era of American art. Name dropping –Andy Warhol, William Burroughs, Todd Rundgren, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix— threads throughout the book. History unfolds as I turn the pages.
Yet, Just Kids as a piece of literature? No. As a work of art, the book is inordinately disappointing. I wish Patti Smith had hired a ghost writer. But, how could a poet summon the courage to hire a ghost writer? I wish the best for Patti—her music, her poetry, her life. I appreciate her opening this private world to us. I am disappointed to say, however, that I can only recommend Just Kids for its historical value.