Tuesday, May 11, 2010


Reading Patti Smith's - Just Kids I'm fascinated by how every little item and circumstance seems to have a deeper meaning, is part of a mystical, haphazard web. Where some parts are beautiful -

"The boy I had met was shy and inarticulate. He liked to be led, to be taken by the hand and enter wholeheartedly another world. He was masculine and protective, even as he was feminine and submissive. Meticulous in his dress and demeanor, he was also capable of a frightening disorder within his work. His own worlds were solitary and dangerous, anticipating freedom, ecstasy, and release."

- others just put me off where the language starts pointing to itself rather than toward the story. The book feels like a soft, damp silky cloth smelling of incense and street fumes, tattered and beautiful. I dive in.

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