There is an atmosphere of misty, pink-colored romance that seeps from Patti Smith’s National Book Award-winning memoir Just Kids, that quickly envelops you when you read it. This mist transports you to another place and time where abject poverty is kind of charming, hunger is character-building, and the kindness of artistic strangers is a given.

This mist is kind of like that one in the Stephen King novella aptly called The Mist, where once you’re in it you’re stuck. Unlike King’s mist, Smith’s is charming and endearing and not at all life-threatening.

Smith’s memoir opens with the death of her soulmate and friend, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Upon getting the phone call, she tucks herself into a chair, listens to some aria, and begins to reminisce.

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